Ghosts
by katriel1987
Summary: Ghosts from the past can pop their heads up in the strangest places. COMPLETE
1. Chapter One

_Author's Note: This story is different from anything else I've ever written. For one thing, it's a lot longer. The blame for it falls directly on the shoulders of the talented singer Jennifer Knapp — while listening to her song "Martyrs & Thieves", I couldn't help but think that some of the lyrics would fit perfectly with a 'Jack's past comes back to bite him' story. All that remained was to come up with a plot for the aforementioned story. This is the result._

_Disclaimer: "Stargate SG-1" and its characters are the property of MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Film Corp., Showtime/Viacom and USA Networks, Inc. This story is for entertainment purposes and the author (me) is not getting paid for it. No copyright infringement is intended. (Really.)_

_

* * *

_

_There are ghosts from my past_

_That own more of my soul_

_Than I thought I had given away_

_They linger in closets and under my bed_

_And in pictures less proudly displayed_

_…_

_Well I've never been much for the baring of soul_

_In the presence of any man_

_I'd rather keep to myself, all safe and secure_

_In the arms of the sinner I am …_

— _Jennifer Knapp, "Martyrs and Thieves"_

* * *

"I need coffee."

Daniel Jackson's voice was faint, raspy, and close to being desperate. Rubbing his bloodshot blue eyes, the archaeologist/linguist/anthropologist, noticeably sans glasses, tripped over a chair and would have crashed headfirst into the table in the conference room had he not been caught by Jack O'Neill.

"Thanks," Daniel muttered half-heartedly, squinting at the blond-haired woman across the table, who was smiling at him with some amusement. "Hi, Sam."

"Morning, Daniel," Sam said cheerfully, all sweetness and light. "Did you get that artifact translated?"

Daniel's expression changed into something halfway between a glower and a pout. "No," he admitted reluctantly. "I think it's some unusual ancient dialect akin to Goa'uld, but I can't figure it out. Even Teal'c couldn't recognize the words — he just said they seemed familiar."

"If Teal'c couldn't understand it, then there was no reason for you to stay up three hours past midnight trying to figure it out," Colonel Jack O'Neill said calmly, his hands absently playing with a ballpoint pen. He looked considerably more rested than did the civilian member of his team.

Daniel gave Jack a pointed glare. "I'm a linguist, Jack! I was thinking that maybe I could cross-reference — how do you know I stayed up that late?"

Jack grinned wickedly. "I've got my sources, Danny boy, and they tell me that you ended up sleeping at your desk last night. From the looks of it, you woke up this morning with those hiero-glaph things imprinted on your forehead."

Automatically, Daniel raised a hand to rub at the aforementioned marks, glaring fuzzily at O'Neill. "The word is 'hieroglyphics', Jack." Daniel knew full well that the Colonel was much more intelligent than he liked to pretend and used his many mispronunciations to get a rise out of the younger man. However, ignoring Jack's little jabs was easier said than done, even when Daniel was so sleepy he could barely hold his head up.

"DanielJackson, you do not seem to be wearing your glasses," Teal'c said gravely, one eyebrow quirking up marginally.

Automatically, Daniel reached up to feel for his glasses, then groaned when he realized that Teal'c was right. No _wonder_ everything was so fuzzy!

"Um, Daniel?" Sam sounded entirely too amused. He looked around blurrily for something to throw at her, and found nothing suitable. "Where are your glasses — and why haven't you had coffee yet?" Sam continued, happily ignoring SG-1's unwritten commandment: Thou Shalt Not Question Daniel Jackson Before He Hath Had His Coffee.

"I must have left them on my desk, and the coffee machine's broken." No mistaking the whine on that last sentence. Daniel Jackson could handle most of the nasty little surprises life threw his way, but when it came to a lack of coffee, he was ready and willing to bemoan life's harsh cruelties.

General Hammond was in his office, evidently being delayed by a telephone call of vital importance, so Daniel turned to retrace his steps back to his desk and the forgotten glasses, only to have Teal'c grab him by the arm and lean toward him, carefully examining his face.

"Um … Teal'c?" To say that Daniel was confused, and slightly uncomfortable, would have been an understatement. He was tired. Very tired. His vision was pathetically fuzzy. He needed his glasses, and he desperately needed coffee, and he did not feel like having his facial features catalogued by a former First Prime!

"DanielJackson, I believe I have uncovered the cause for your difficulty in translating the artifact discovered on P4R-999." Daniel blinked at this abnormally long sentence, only to have Teal'c continue with something akin to a smile, "I do not find it difficult to read the words currently imprinted on your forehead."

Daniel blinked.

Jack, picking up on the situation, snickered.

"Mirror writing?" Sam asked in disbelief. "You mean the writing on the artifact is _mirror writing?"_

"I am unfamiliar with that phrase, MajorCarter, but it would seem that these inscriptions are indeed meant to be read in the reverse. Holding the artifact up to a mirror would certainly achieve the desired effect."

_"Mirror writing?"_ Jack snorted, attempting to hold back a laugh and failing miserably. "That's a new one, isn't it? From now on it should be standard procedure to hold untranslatable artifacts up to a mirror, Daniel. Just in case."

Daniel glared angrily at the fuzzy blur he assumed to be Jack O'Neill. He really, really needed coffee.

With a sigh, Dr. Jackson resumed his trek back to his office for his glasses, practically groaning in frustration. He'd spent all that time wracking his brain — a couple of times he had nearly been frustrated enough to begin beating his head against his desk — and the entire time, all he'd really needed was a _mirror!_

By the time Daniel returned, General Hammond was seated at the head of the table, his expression somewhat impatient. Feeling a little sheepish, Daniel plopped down in his chair and began attempting to arrange the haphazard stack of files and papers sitting in front of him.

"Now that we're _all_ here," the General said rather pointedly, "we can begin discussion on the data from Z2Y-773. Dr. Jackson?"

Daniel dug frantically through the jumble of disorganized papers for a moment before giving up and taking the whole mess with him. The archaeologist prudently ignored Jack's snicker when he tripped over an empty chair on his way around the table.

"The MALP data recovered from Z2Y-773 shows a large temple, possibly Greek in origin, obviously abandoned for hundreds of years. From what I can make out in these photographs, the inscriptions on the wall are written in a dialect of ancient Greek. They could be very important, given their repeated references to the deity Demeter and their — "

Toying with his pen, Jack tuned out the rest of Daniel's archaeological lecture. Daniel could be almost as bad as Carter when he got going. Carter's long-winded explanations were called technobabble, so how should Daniel's be described? Archaeobabble? Anthrobabble? Yes, anthrobabble was good. He couldn't wait to see Daniel's face when he used that one.

General Hammond's voice brought Jack back to reality, alerting him to the fact that Daniel's spiel had not continued for nearly as long as his 'anthrobabble' usually did. That could be due in great part to the fact that the archaeologist was still riffling hopelessly through pages of notes. Some of them were fluttering to the floor, evading his futile attempts to capture them and return them to some semblance of order.

"Very well, Dr. Jackson." For an instant, the stern and composed General appeared to be fighting a grin as he watched Daniel straggle back to his seat, leaving loose papers in his wake like pieces of oversized confetti. "SG-1, you have a go. Mission scheduled for 0600 hours in the morning. Oh, and Colonel?"

"Yes, sir?" Still playing with the pen, O'Neill turned to face his commanding officer.

"You'll be accompanied on this mission by a new member of the SGC, a Lt. Colonel who has recently been transferred here. He comes highly recommended by a number of very important people. Your job will be to break him in a bit, get his first gate trip behind him. By all indications, Z2Y-773 should be a routine mission."

_Yeah, shouldn't they all,_ O'Neill thought with a faint, wry smile. "What's his name, sir?"

"Lt. Colonel Dawes."

The long fingers stilled. "Dawes? David Dawes?"

"Yes." General Hammond looked slightly surprised. "You know him, Colonel?"

The pen snapped, a cascade of blue ink marring the table and floor and spattering the front of O'Neill's BDUs with ugly blotches. He dropped the two halves of the pen, seeming oblivious to the soft plastic 'clink' when they hit the floor.

"Colonel?" Hammond looked more dumbfounded than upset, unaccustomed to such displays from his 2IC. "Is there a problem?"

The smile he received in return for that question was so cold and dead that General Hammond flinched instinctively. "General," Jack O'Neill said slowly, his voice a toneless rasp. "Could I have a word with you? Privately?"

Hammond nodded and turned toward his office, the Colonel following. O'Neill's steps were slow and measured, almost robotic. His entire body was tense, hands clinched into fists.

Carter, Daniel and Teal'c were left staring at each other in airless shock, clueless as to what had caused their CO's sudden, bizarre behavior.

Upon hearing the name of the new Lt. Colonel, O'Neill had undergone a sudden and drastic change. His brown eyes, usually warm, had abruptly become icy, completely devoid of emotion. A different Jack O'Neill, one they were not familiar with, had surfaced right in front of them, with no more provocation than a simple name spoken aloud.

Sometimes they had to be reminded that Jack O'Neill had not always been the man he was today. That he had a darker side he kept hidden from the world, from them even. When that stranger had surfaced in the body of their friend, they'd all taken an involuntary step back.

This was a man who was capable of doing the 'damn distasteful things' he had once mentioned.

This was a man who could be feared.

The sound of raised voices floated indistinctly toward them, signifying a heated conversation from within the office. All they could do was wait for its conclusion — and, they hoped, for the return of the Jack O'Neill they knew and trusted.

* * *

"I don't care who the hell recommended him, General. I don't want him going off-world with my team." O'Neill's voice rose, and he clinched his fists tighter, fingernails digging into his palms as he attempted to control the seething anger. "I don't want him _anywhere near_ my team. I don't want him within a damned mile of my team!"

"Colonel?" General Hammond stared in disbelief at his Second In Command. "Is there something you'd like to make me aware of? Lt. Colonel Dawes' file is exemplary. The Chief of Staff — "

Colonel O'Neill smiled again, that cold and grotesque mockery of the easy, friendly smile Hammond was accustomed to seeing. "To be perfectly honest, General? I don't give a damn what the Chief of Staff said about him. I don't give a damn what the file says. I don't give a damn if the President kissed his ass. He is _not_ going off-world with my team."

"Colonel!" Anger flared. "Have you forgotten that this is my command?"

"No. Sir." Emphasis on the 'sir'. O'Neill's eyes met Hammond's. "However, General, if you attempt to send Dawes off-world with us, you can expect my resignation well before 0600 hours tomorrow morning."

The General's mouth dropped open. "What in the — ?" With a weary sigh, he scrubbed a hand over his face. "All right, son. If it truly means that much to you, I'll send Dawes off-world with SG-8. They have a diplomatic mission in the morning." Seeing the Colonel's slight flinch, Hammond added more sharply, "Colonel Dawes _is_ going to be a part of this command, Jack. You'd better get used to that. And I don't want to hear anything about a confrontation between the two of you. If your issues with him are that bad, you will stay away from him as much as possible. And when contact is unavoidable, you will handle yourself as an officer. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal. Sir."

Hammond sighed.

"Jack, I wish you'd tell me what's going on here. With all the threats we face daily going through that Stargate, I can't afford to have hostilities among my people."

The chilly smile again. General George Hammond made up his mind that he thoroughly hated that smile. "Dawes and I served together, sir. A long time ago." A pause, in which O'Neill's eyes fixed on the wall somewhere beyond Hammond's face. "He was a traitor and a low-down, worthless coward."

"His file — "

"It wouldn't be in his file." O'Neill's voice was bitter. He snapped to attention, clearly unwilling to elaborate. "With your permission, sir?"

"Dismissed, Colonel." General Hammond sighed as he watched his 2IC, one of the finest officers he had ever met and a damn good man to boot, turn to walk away. God only knew what they were getting themselves into, putting Dawes on the same base with O'Neill. It wasn't as if he had any choice — Dawes had been transferred to the SGC by powers far outranking Hammond.

George Hammond had seen this side of O'Neill only a few times in the past. In his opinion, if he never saw it again, it would be far too soon.

"Colonel?" Hammond's voice stopped O'Neill in his tracks. Softly, the General said, "You really should wash your hands."

For just an instant, a split second in time, an expression of abject horror crossed Jack O'Neill's face. He jerked his hands up, staring at the shaking palms. His relief when he saw the ink was obvious but quickly concealed. "Yes, sir," he said, his tone carefully neutral.

And on his way out of the General's office, he ruthlessly quashed memories of screams and sobs and warm, sticky blood, banishing them back to the box he had built long ago to keep them contained.

* * *

Colonel O'Neill was right on time the following morning, meeting his team in the commissary for breakfast. He still seemed tense — watching his back as if enemy forces could appear at any moment — but otherwise, he was back to the leader they knew.

The coffee machine had been fixed and Daniel, in typical Daniel fashion, seemed to have forgotten about the previous day's events and was prattling on about the upcoming mission, hardly stopping for breath. Though Jack would never have admitted it, he welcomed this symbol of normalcy, allowed it to lull him into a sense of peacefulness.

He sometimes complained about the tendency of both his archaeologist and his astrophysicist to practically drown him in waves of anthro- and techno-babble, but deep down, he enjoyed their enthusiasm and wide-eyed wonder. They were almost childlike in the face of discovery — something he knew he could never be again.

A voice spoke from behind him. "We meet again, O'Neill."

Had he not known better, the tone would have been almost friendly. He stiffened, teeth grinding together. Teal'c picked up on O'Neill's body language immediately, and even Daniel trailed off, his train of thought lost. The hulking Jaffa took an automatic, protective half-step toward O'Neill, only to be stopped by a silent upraised hand.

Jack turned, his eyes cold but his tone measured and calm. "Hello, Dawes."

Lt. Colonel David Dawes smiled. Carter couldn't help but notice that he was a very good-looking man — blond and blue-eyed with almost boyish features, though he must have been at least forty. There was something about his smile, however, that she did not like. Could it be mere paranoia, brought on by her commanding officer's bizarre reaction to the man's presence?

"Hear you've got a mission today," Lt. Colonel Dawes said conversationally. "Z2Y-773. I wonder if they've got any children there, Colonel?"

The room stilled.

"Wonder if the local leaders know you're coming, _sir?"_ The voice was mocking, turning the expression of respect — 'sir' — into a vulgar curse word. "Maybe they'd change their minds about allowing you on the planet if they knew a few little things. Pity you wouldn't let me come along. I could have told them all about that time you — "

"Son of a bitch!" O'Neill finally ground out, spinning and launching himself unexpectedly at the new member of the SGC. Dawes jumped aside, but couldn't avoid the oncoming Colonel. Within seconds, O'Neill had him by the shirt collar and was giving him the shaking of his life.

"Colonel!" General Hammond bellowed from the far side of the room, aghast at seeing his orders disobeyed so suddenly. From his position, he had not been able to hear the words that had evidently provoked such violent action on his 2IC's part. "Colonel, get yourself under control!"

A firm grip on his upper arms, drawing him away, brought Jack back to reality. "O'Neill, I do not believe it would be wise to continue this course of action," Teal'c said quietly and practically. "GeneralHammond appears most displeased."

"Aw, damn it." Jack rubbed his hands through his graying hair, his body still wound tight as a spring. One glance at Hammond's face told him he was in for it. The General looked angry enough to spit nails, his gaze straying back and forth between O'Neill and Dawes as if he wasn't sure which man to blame. Dawes had adopted a shocked, innocent expression, his blue eyes denying any wrongdoing.

"Dawes. O'Neill. Both of you, in my office, five minutes ago!" His body practically vibrating with anger, Hammond left the room.

* * *

"Would either of you like to tell me just what the _hell_ that was about?"

Dawes and O'Neill stood silently at attention, avoiding each other's gaze. Seconds ticked by, finally broken by General Hammond's sigh of exasperation. He realized he was going to have to single someone out. "Colonel O'Neill, would you like to tell me why you behaved in direct violation of the orders I gave you just yesterday?"

Silence.

_Lord, give me strength, or I swear I'll shoot them both here and now. _Hammond closed his eyes for a moment. "Dawes? What exactly did you say to provoke O'Neill?"

David Dawes widened his blue eyes, the picture of innocence. "I brought up a past mission in which Colonel O'Neill and I served together, sir." His tone was flawlessly polite. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be in your files, General. It's classified. _Very_ classified."

"Which would be why you brought it up in a room full of people?" Hammond snapped.

Dawes looked suitably abashed. "I'm sorry, General. I wasn't sure Colonel O'Neill remembered me. I wasn't specific — I said only enough to jog his memory."

Hammond barely managed to suppress a groan. "Believe me, Dawes, he remembers you. And may I ask why the memory of this particular mission drove him to try to strangle you? Or is _that_ 'very' classified as well?"

Silence. O'Neill's teeth ground together audibly, the sound like fingernails down a chalkboard to Hammond's already frayed nerves.

"O'Neill!" He snapped. "Would _you_ like to give an explanation?"

"Dawes and I didn't get along well in our previous acquaintance, General," O'Neill finally said. "He jogged my memory rather well." This sentence came out as a snarl, with a half-glance directed toward the Lt. Colonel. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"It damn well had better not!" General Hammond bellowed. "Colonel, I don't have to remind you that I will not stand for fighting among my people. You are both officers of the United States Air Force and from this moment on the two of you will behave yourselves as such! Do you understand?"

Two "Yes, sirs", one of them spoken crisply and politely, the other mumbled with obvious resentment. Hammond's eyes narrowed. "Colonel Dawes, you are dismissed with a warning. I do not want to see you in this office again."

"Yes, sir!" Dawes snapped off a perfect salute and did a quick about-face out of the office.

After he was gone, General Hammond turned his attention back to his rigid 2IC. "Jack, I don't know what the hell's going on between you two, and you don't seem inclined to tell me, but I am disappointed beyond words. You just disobeyed a direct order I gave you less than 24 hours ago. At this moment, I am not in any way persuaded that I can trust you to prevent your personal issues from interfering with your performance."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"You'd damn well better be. I don't have to tell you that you could be in serious trouble for this outburst, but I'm going to let you off with a warning this time. If this personal feud continues, you can rest assured that I'll kick your ass off this base before you know what happened!"

"Yes, _sir!"_

"Get out of here, Colonel. Take your team to Z2Y-773."


	2. Chapter Two

_Author's Note: Thanks to BizzyLizzy for pointing out my utterly idiotic mistake in the first chapter. DUH! I knew that; I just had a dumb moment. I've re-uploaded the chapter and corrected that. Thanks again. :-)_

_Disclaimer: See chapter one._

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* * *

_

_I am shell-shocked, and I have walked_

_Through the trenches full of tears_

_With the mortars of memory_

_Exploding in my burning ears … _

— _Caedmon's Call, "Coming Home"_

* * *

"We need a medical team!"

Jack O'Neill came through the wormhole shouting, his hands and the front of his shirt splattered with blood. He spun, stumbling on the ramp, watching as the other three members of his team materialized through the event horizon — Carter, wide-eyed and shaken; Teal'c, carrying a limp and very pale Daniel Jackson.

"Medical team to the Gate Room!" Sgt. Walter Harriman called from the Control Room. As General Hammond made his way toward the SGC's flagship team, Teal'c gently lowered the archaeologist to the ramp. O'Neill knelt next to the younger man, reaching out to touch his face.

"Damn it, Daniel," he snapped. "Come on! Don't do this!"

Jackson's head lolled limply to the side, his eyes closed. If not for the blood all over the front of his BDUs, he could have been asleep. O'Neill, Teal'c and Carter were swept out of the way as the medical team arrived, headed by Janet Fraiser, who fired a rapid stream of questions at the three members of SG-1 still standing.

"What happened? How long ago? Are any of the rest of you hurt?"

"He was stabbed by one of the natives," Carter replied, her face pale and her voice shaking. "There was no warning, Janet — they seemed so friendly and then all the sudden — we didn't know there was anything wrong until they just attacked him!"

"It's okay, Sam. It's not your fault." Janet, recognizing that the blond Major was showing signs of going into shock, waved other members of the medical team toward her. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Half an hour. Forty-five minutes, at most. We had to make a run for it." Sam dazedly allowed a nurse to look after her as Daniel was transferred to a stretcher.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." Sam's hands were shaking, belying her statement. "We weren't hurt. Just Daniel. I don't know, maybe it made them mad when he looked at the writing on the temple. I don't know, Janet. I just don't know."

Janet's last view of the Gate Room was of O'Neill and Teal'c standing side by side. Neither of them had said a word to her, and only the whiteness of O'Neill's knuckles as he clutched his P-90 spoke of his concern. Teal'c looked calm and collected, but Janet knew that behind that impassive face was a great deal of anxiety for the man he had come to think of as a friend.

* * *

"Janet?"

"Doc?"

"DoctorFraiser?"

Three people rose as one — Carter, O'Neill, Teal'c. Sam was wrapped in a blanket to bring her temperature back up, but she had insisted on being released so she could await news of Daniel with the other half of her team.

Janet smiled, which was always a good sign. "He's going to be fine. He lost a lot of blood, but the stab wound to his thigh was superficial and the bandage applied on the planet probably saved his life. He's sedated right now, and I've given him a dose of antibiotics to prevent infection, but you'll be able to see him after he wakes up. One at a time," she specified with a fierce glare, knowing that the conscious three-fourths of SG-1 was likely to try to barge in as soon as Daniel awakened.

Three sighs of relief. Three people trying to pretend they hadn't really been worried at all. Janet could barely hold back a smile. They were just like siblings — they squabbled sometimes, but they cared for each other deeply and their loyalty was passionate.

"How long 'til he gets out of here?" Of course that would be O'Neill, the infamous patient who always wanted out of the infirmary immediately after waking up from major surgery. Janet took a moment to thank all the deities she could think of — excluding Goa'ulds, of course — that Daniel was not as bad as the Colonel when it came to infirmary stays.

"That remains to be seen, Colonel. If there are no signs of infection and his wound heals cleanly, he could be sent home to recuperate within a few days. As you know, he won't be allowed back on active duty until the wound has healed completely." She gave a reassuring smile to Colonel O'Neill, and to his teammates. "You guys saved his life, you know."

O'Neill's fingers started twitching abruptly, a sure sign of agitation. "I should have known it was coming," he said. "They seemed too friendly. 'Hi, how are ya, glad to meet you, make yourselves at home!' Then Daniel tried to take one look inside their temple, and they wanted to kill him."

"Maybe it was sacred to them, sir," Sam theorized, the wheels already beginning to turn inside her head. "Maybe only their priests were allowed inside, and Daniel's presence was considered sacrilege. Or something." She trailed off, knowing she was in unfamiliar territory. Daniel's territory.

"Or something," O'Neill muttered. Carter glared at him.

"All right, out of here. The lot of you," Janet ordered. _"Go!_ Get some sleep and something to eat. Doctor's orders. You'll be notified when Daniel wakes up." When O'Neill hesitated, she added sharply, "So help me, Colonel, if you aren't out of here in fifteen seconds I'll sedate you!"

As she had suspected, that did the trick. O'Neill was gone well before the allotted time had passed.

* * *

"We received no warning, GeneralHammond."

As per orders, Teal'c, Carter, and O'Neill had all eaten something and had gotten the mandatory few hours of sleep — or, in Teal'c's case, of kelnoreem. They were now gathered in the briefing room with General Hammond, trying to retrace the events of a seemingly routine mission which had turned suddenly and terribly wrong.

"The natives seemed friendly enough, sir." Carter picked up the story. She still looked tired, and her hair was sticking up as wildly as O'Neill's. "It took Daniel a few minutes to communicate with them, because they spoke some mutated form of Greek. Eventually he managed to tell them that we were peaceful travelers from another planet. They acted very welcoming."

"Yeah. They even offered to throw a feast in our favor." This from O'Neill, who was resting his head on his folded arms. He didn't appear to have gotten much sleep, if any.

"There were only trace amounts of naquadah around the town, but the leader of the people told us — or told Daniel, rather — of a mine in the mountains not far away. It sounded pretty promising. I think Daniel asked a couple questions about the temple, without getting any straight answers. That was when he headed for it."

"Did they seem agitated that he was walking toward the temple?" General Hammond asked, interrupting Carter's story.

She shook her head. "No, sir. They were watching him, but they seemed to think it was an everyday occurrence. It was when he walked inside that they lost it completely. The man closest to the temple drew a knife and went for Daniel. He stabbed him before we could react."

"And then?"

"I couldn't risk firing for fear of hitting Daniel, sir," Jack explained. "I hit Daniel's attacker in the head with my P-90, then fired a couple rounds into the ground in front of the locals. That scared the shit out of them. They turned tail and ran, including the one I'd decked. He was pretty wobbly, but he ran."

"The shots must have scared them pretty bad, because they didn't show up again until we were almost to the gate. Even then, they were too frightened to get close, and they disappeared back into the woods when the Colonel fired another few rounds into the ground in front of them. We dialed home and came through with Daniel, and the rest you know." Major Carter finished the story.

General Hammond nodded. "People, there's no way you could have known that the natives would turn hostile when they did. You did your best, and retrieved Dr. Jackson from what could have been a fatal situation. From what Dr. Fraiser tells me, he's going to be fine. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

On cue, a head poked through the door. "Sir? Doctor Fraiser says Dr. Jackson is awake."

"Dismissed," Hammond said hastily, his words coming a few seconds after Carter, O'Neill and Teal'c had vacated their chairs.

* * *

Daniel Jackson opened his eyes.

"Jack," he said anticlimactically, "did you remember to feed my fish?"

Jack O'Neill's mouth fell open as he struggled for words to describe the incongruity of that question. "For cryin' out loud, Daniel, I haven't even been off the base! You've been here less than five hours!"

"Oh." Daniel blinked owlishly, trying to bring his fuzzy vision into focus but failing due to the distinct lack of glasses. "I guess it's okay, then. Considering that the last thing I remember was being stabbed by that guy on ZY2-773, I figured I'd been here for a few days at least."

"No such luck, Daniel. You got it in the leg. Not too bad, although you bled like a stuck pig. Doc says you might be out of here in a few days if you're good."

There was a flurry of rapid blinking from the archaeologist. In his fuzzy state, he didn't seem to realize that his nearsightedness was not going to improve until his glasses were returned to him. "Good," he mumbled. "Since I'm not as bad a patient as you are, I might have a chance of getting out early."

"I'm not a bad patient!" Jack protested. "It's just that there's this Napoleonic — hi Doc."

The glare directed at him could have fried bacon. To a crisp. "Colonel, it's Teal'c's turn. Tell Dr. Jackson goodbye, keeping in mind that you are overdue for a physical."

Jack's complexion paled several shades and he gulped. "'Bye, Daniel. Don't give the Doc too much trouble."

"'Bye, Jack. Try not to yell too loud when she jams the needle into your butt," Daniel slurred. Even semiconscious, he could be, well, a serious pain in the nether regions.

Although, judging by Dr. Fraiser's expression, she was about to take that expression a little too literally.

Damn.

* * *

When he got out of the infirmary later, still rubbing his backside, the note was on his desk. Unsigned, carefully generic. Printed in black ink on plain paper in Times New Roman font, size 12.

"So the geek will live. He's lucky. I seem to remember you had a habit of getting your team members killed."

He wadded it up, threw it at the trash can. Missed. He cursed aloud, viciously.

This was getting old already, and he had the feeling it was just beginning.

Because, unlike anyone else on this base, he knew David Dawes, the man behind the exemplary record and angelic face. What he knew told him he was in for hell.

Maybe he should resign.

* * *

"Ow! Damn it!"

Daniel Jackson glared angrily at the couch as if it had reached out and deliberately tripped him. He did not like crutches. He had never liked crutches. He was firmly convinced he did not need crutches. But oh no, Janet wouldn't let him out of the infirmary unless he _promised_ not to take a step without leaning on the unwanted objects.

It had been nearly a week since the disastrous mission to Z2Y-773, and Daniel was reveling in the freedom — well, relative freedom — of being back in his own home. He was, of course, supervised, by one mother hen of an Air Force Colonel, who would probably squawk like the proverbial chicken if he knew that Daniel was attempting to maneuver his way through the obstacle course that was the living room.

"Daniel!"

One squawking Colonel. Check.

"What are you doing?" Jack was drying his hands on his gray t-shirt and fixing Daniel with the same stare he must have used on his son once. "Daniel, I leave for _one minute_ to use the water closet, and look what you do to yourself! Couldn't it wait for just a few minutes?"

Daniel snorted. _"Water closet?"_

Jack shrugged. "So I served with an Englishman one time. You gotta admit, it has a certain ring to it." He practically dragged the archaeologist to a couch and set him down with a _thump._ "Now, what did you need so desperately that you couldn't wait until I finished pi — "

"Water. I was thirsty." Surely that wasn't a whine in his voice, was it?

An eloquent roll of the eyes. "One glass of water, coming up."

Daniel couldn't help but think that Jack had been strangely eager to take the assignment of watching over the sometimes accident-prone archaeologist. What Dr. Jackson didn't know was that Jack had been dying for some excuse, any excuse, to get away from the base. Away from the ghosts that kept popping up at every turn. Away from the constant reminders of memories that made bile burn the back of his throat.

Maybe he was hoping that Dawes would disappear while he was gone, taking the memories with him. Maybe he just needed the time to gather himself, form a plan of action, practice a little positive confession.

_You will not kill him._

_ You will not kill him._

_ You will not kill him._

_ You will not kill him._

_You might maim him severely, but you will not kill him._

Probably the hardest thing was the knowledge that only his own past gave Dawes the ammunition to continue the discreet torment. It was _his_ actions — his, Jack O'Neill's — which were so conveniently turned against him, into an assault on his sanity. The guilt was the worst facet of the entire mess, guilt he had tried so hard to destroy. Ghosts of his past pointed fingers, accusing, their eyes haunting him. One set of eyes in particular — the eyes of a child …

He'd done only what he was ordered to do. Right?

He'd been in the service of his country. Right?

So why the hell did it still drag him under?

Maybe, in the end, his ghosts had owned even more of his soul than he'd thought he had given away.

* * *

It was paperwork that finally sent him back.

Piles of paperwork, and an impatient, exasperated, rapidly healing archaeologist who had repeatedly announced that he was a big boy and could get his own glasses of water now, thank you very much. After Dr. Fraiser backed Daniel up, agreeing that he would be fine on his own, Jack was left with no choice.

His office was dark when he opened the door, and his hand was halfway to the light switch before the back of his neck began to tingle. He froze in place, his eyes beginning to adjust to the dimness. A faint swath of light cut through the room, glinting faintly off the blond hair of the figure standing silently in the corner.

The words hissed out of the darkness, swirling around his ankles, trapping him and pulling him to his knees.

"You remember the way that kid's eyes looked after you shot him, Jack, in the split second before he died? He didn't look like a tough soldier then, did he? He just looked like a kid. Like a scared kid. Do you lie awake at night remembering his eyes, or do they blur together with all the others?"

A strangled sound erupted from O'Neill's throat. It was as if a bomb had gone off inside his head, spewing smothering rage that threatened to overwhelm his rational mind. The killer in him fought toward the surface.

The voice continued, whisper soft. "I've always been intrigued by the concept of poetic justice, Colonel. I wonder if your son's eyes looked that way before he died? Just before you killed him?"

The killer, freed, leapt toward its prey, silent and deadly. Hands sought a fragile neck, as they had so many times before.

Just a single snap, and it would be over.

All of it over.

* * *

Lieutenant Graham Simmons sounded scared to death.

"General Hammond?" His voice shook. "Sir, C-Colonel O'Neill is k-killing C-Colonel D-Dawes. You b-better send s-someone."

After getting a location from the frightened Lieutenant and dispatching the SFs on their urgent mission, General Hammond dropped his head into his hands, feeling suddenly old and tired. "God, Jack," he whispered. "Why? _Why?"_

* * *

Dawes didn't die, although it would have been iffy had the SFs arrived a few moments later. He was rushed off to the infirmary with a bruised trachea, a concussion, a broken nose and two very clear handprints around his neck.

It took three SFs to drag O'Neill away, and he didn't stop fighting until he acquired several ugly bruises of his own. In the end, it didn't matter. His fate was sealed.

Colonel Jack O'Neill was taken into custody, pending his trial. After it was all over, he knew as well as anyone that he would most likely be court-martialed.

He just didn't care any more.

One single act, and it was over.

All of it over.


	3. Chapter Three

_Hello, good morning, how ya been?_

_Yesterday left my head kicked in_

_I never, never thought that I would fall like that_

_Never knew that I could hurt this bad … _

— _Switchfoot, "Learning to Breathe"_

* * *

There were two conditions under which a recuperating Daniel Jackson could be called while sound asleep on the couch in the late afternoon.

1: The Goa'uld had landed and were taking over Earth.

2: An asteroid was headed directly toward Colorado Springs and would obliterate all life on Earth within 10 minutes.

Anything less merited the immediate execution of the calling party. Or at least a sleepy lecture.

"Uhmm," he muttered into the cordless telephone.

Allowing her teammate's incoherent groan to pass as a "Hello", Sam Carter said, "Daniel?" Her voice sounded strange — tense, and distant, as if she was holding the phone away from her face.

"Sam?" He mumbled. "Wha's goin' on?"

"Daniel, we've got to get to the SGC. I'm on my way to pick you up." Her words, her tone, were like ice water in his face. Awake now, he struggled to sit up, groaning as the stitches in his leg tugged uncomfortably.

"What happened?"

Her reply was unintelligible.

"Sam, say again. I think you're breaking up."

"It's the Colonel," Sam said clearly. Then, after a gut-wrenching second, "He tried to strangle Lt. Colonel David Dawes. He nearly succeeded, too."

_"What?"_ Daniel groped for his glasses, knocking them off the coffee table onto the floor. He swore under his breath. "Sam, are you sure? I mean, did someone see it happen?"

"Graham Simmons saw the whole thing, and the SFs caught him in the act. They literally had to pull him off. It took three of them." Sam sounded every bit as miserable as Daniel felt. "I don't know what's going on, Daniel. It seems awful to hope that he has something wrong, an alien virus or a reaction to a drug or — _something._ Do you think he would do what he did otherwise?"

Daniel started to say no, but then he remembered the cold eyes he had seen for so brief a time. The stranger, making a brief appearance in his friend's body.

It had been days ago, before Z2Y-773. Before his injury. He had almost forgotten, but not quite.

"I don't know, Sam," he said softly. "I don't know."

* * *

Holding cells were boring. Gray overlapping gray — walls, ceiling, floor, cot. After a while, gray became the entire world. He should know — he'd been here before. Maybe the military wished to drive prisoners to confession on the power of boredom alone. Torture by ennui.

Jack was sitting in the corner, his finger drawing endless circles on the cold gray floor. The door opened, but he didn't bother to look up until the visitor spoke. Just one word.

"Son?"

Damn it! Why did he have to sound compassionate? After all this? After Jack had let him down, destroyed his trust? God, why did he have to stand there and call him _son?_

General Hammond knelt on the floor next to the Colonel, his eyes displaying a mix of emotions: Confusion. Disappointment. Anger. And most damning of all, concern.

He'd thought he'd known Jack O'Neill. Maybe he'd been wrong.

"Jack, I wish you'd tell me just what the hell is going on here."

Silence. The gray seeped past O'Neill's eyes into his brain and he stared at a wall until everything was gray and reality existed only in the soft crinkling sounds Hammond's starched clothes made when he shifted position.

A sigh, ineffably sad, weary like the father of the prodigal son who refuses to come home. "Son, I can't help you unless you tell me what's going on."

Gray walls, gray ceiling, gray floor.

"We worked together in Black Ops, Dawes and me." Jack's voice, when he finally spoke, was scratchy and rough. "Long time ago. I never liked him, but hell, what can you do? We got sent out on a mission. We were — we were supposed to take out the leader of a — rebel faction. I'd do the shooting — Dawes would watch my back."

He paused, long enough that for a moment Hammond was afraid he wouldn't continue. Then he slammed his hand viciously against the floor, swearing. _"Damn_ it!"

Gray walls, gray ceiling, gray floor. Red blood, seeping from bruised and torn knuckles. It broke the monotony, made him feel better somehow. He stared at it and mustered the strength to continue. God knew he hated baring his soul in the presence of any man, but right now the rest of his life depended on it.

"The leader of the rebel faction? He was a kid. A damned kid. Couldn't have been more than fourteen, maybe fifteen years old. He thought he was tough — real tough. And he was dangerous; his people had done a lot of damage. I had my orders and I was serving my country, right? So I killed him. Just like that. One bullet. But I saw his eyes. And in that last second, he was a kid. Just a damned kid."

There was a choked sound that could have been a sob had it not come from Jack O'Neill. His head was down now, and his finger had resumed its repetitive motion, swirling drops of blood into circular patterns on the dull gray floor. "Dawes hadn't known who I was supposed to take out. He told me I was a sick son of a bitch, a child-killer. At the time, I wasn't inclined to disagree. But it turned out, he'd sold me out. Led me right into a trap — they were waiting for us. I got shot, went down, and he walked away free and unharmed and a little richer for his trouble. And before he left me lying there, he told me I got what I deserved for killing a kid."

Hammond wanted to ask why the betrayal had never come to light, why there was no mention of it in Dawes' file, but he didn't dare interrupt the rare glimpse into the scarred soul of his 2IC.

"I spent six months in their damn prison!" O'Neill spat, waving his hand widely to illustrate the point. Tiny drops of blood landed on Hammond's immaculate white shirt. "They — the, uh, rebels — thought they could get good information from the child-killing American. Thought I'd help them beat their enemy. Well, they were wrong. By the time I got out, I couldn't form a coherent sentence, but I hadn't told them a damn thing."

His finger resumed the swirling motion on the floor, round and round and round in empty circles. "Oh, I told our CO what happened. You bet your ass I told my CO. Dawes denied the whole thing, had the perfect cover story. And what would I know, anyway? I could hardly remember my own name. I didn't know what year it was, who was President. Nobody believed my story. I came _this_ close to spending the rest of my life rotting in an asylum, strapped out and drugged. Spent too much time that way as it was."

General Hammond finally understood a few of O'Neill's cryptic comments, tossed out at random over the years — tidbits of the horror he'd lived, presented almost casually at times.

"When they finally said I was cured and turned me loose, I knew better than to ever mention anything about it again. I got as far away as I could from Dawes and tried to forget all about it. Until now."

When the silence dragged on and it became clear that Jack's story was finished, the General asked one final question. "What was he doing in your office, Jack? What did he say?"

"He mentioned the kid I shot. And poetic justice. And Charlie." A catch of breath on the last word. "And he asked me if … if Charlie's eyes looked like that kid's did, when he died."

"Oh, God." Hammond scrunched his eyes shut, trying to calm the rage that boiled up. As the officer in charge of Stargate Command, he couldn't let his emotions get in the way. But in this case, he knew it was going to be damned hard.

When it came right down to it, he didn't blame Jack O'Neill one bit.

* * *

It took some doing, but Hammond finally got O'Neill out on bail. He personally drove the Colonel home, made sure he would be all right, made sure he wouldn't do anything crazy and try to take off before his trial.

By the time General Hammond made it back to the SGC, there were three very impatient people waiting to talk to him — Major Carter, Dr. Jackson and Teal'c. He presented them with a much-abbreviated version of the events related to him by O'Neill — that the two men had served together years before, and Dawes had betrayed O'Neill, that betrayal going unpunished. He also told them that the Lt. Colonel had taunted O'Neill about his son in order to provoke the attack in the office.

By the end of the condensed version of the story, Daniel looked about as angry as George Hammond had ever seen him. "What's going to happen to Jack?" He asked. "Will he get into trouble for this? Be court-martialed?"

Hammond sighed. "There's a possibility, Dr. Jackson. I've talked to Major Davis from the Pentagon, and I'm pretty sure he's on our side. There is the fact that Dawes was waiting in Colonel O'Neill's office, and that the attack on him was hardly unprovoked. We also have a note Dawes wrote, although it may not be easy to trace it directly to him."

The telephone rang. "Dismissed," the General said quickly, reaching for the phone. "I'll let you know if I hear anything else."

They left, Daniel rising gingerly and being helped from the room by Teal'c. He was walking without crutches now, but still with a considerable limp.

There wasn't much to do — they all wanted to talk to O'Neill, to let him know that they were behind him, but Hammond had said he was probably best left alone for now. Sam went to her lab to work on something electronic — speaking vaguely about an overhaul of a MALP — and Daniel retired to his office to translate a Goa'uld artifact with Teal'c's help.

Two days later, Jack still didn't feel like talking, and Daniel hadn't made too much progress on the translation. He had no idea whether Sam's Very Important MALP Overhaul had been completed according to schedule, and he didn't get a chance to ask. She stayed hidden away in her lab most of the time, and when she saw him in the early mornings she would offer only a quick "hi" before disappearing again.

After rummaging around desperately for the notebook he needed, Daniel suddenly had a flash of inspiration. He jumped up suddenly, grimacing a little as his leg protested. "Darn it! I think I forgot the notebook in Hammond's office the other day. Who knows where it is by now." Teal'c made a motion to go with him, but Daniel waved him away, tired of being overprotected. "It's okay, Teal'c, really. I can get it. Thanks, though." The Jaffa nodded, turning to leave for his quarters — probably to do kelnoreem. He looked tired. As tired as a Jaffa could look, anyway.

Just outside of General Hammond's office, Daniel was about to knock when the telephone conversation he overheard stopped him in his tracks. Realizing he hadn't been seen, he froze, hidden behind the door, hardly daring to breathe.

"You're _sure_ it was Colonel O'Neill? Eyewitnesses? Oh, God." The General sounded tired and old. "I swear, I never thought he'd do something like that. I wouldn't have gotten him out if I had." There was a long pause, then finally, "You're sure Colonel Dawes is dead? There's no chance that … ? No. All right. Thank you. Do I need to send — okay. The police are on their way, then. I understand. Thank you."

The lost notebook was forgotten. Daniel bolted, unnoticed by the preoccupied General, every step sending a sharp slash of pain through his thigh.

_He wouldn't do it, would he?_

_ Would he?_

_ Would Jack kill Dawes in cold blood?_

Without even realizing it, Jackson had made a beeline for his office. With one hand pressed against his thigh to relieve the pain, Daniel picked up the phone and dialed.

There was only one way to be sure.

He would ask.

* * *

Jack wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep for a really, really long time. Until the trial, maybe.

As he had learned through bitter experience, however, sleep rarely comes when it is desperately coveted. He was sitting on the couch staring blankly at the TV when the telephone rang. He jumped a little, then looked guiltily at the phone, knowing it was probably one of his team members. He should have talked to them by now. Should have explained what was going on. He just didn't feel like he could handle it right now — the questions, the concern, the assurances that they were there for him.

What if they'd seen the way that boy's eyes looked when he died?

Would they still be behind him?

Or would they look at him the way they looked at a Goa'uld?

Guilt won over exhaustion and he answered on the second ring. "Hello."

"Jack?" Daniel sounded panicky, out of breath, and in pain. Not a good combination. "Jack, God, please tell me you didn't do it."

"Didn't do what?"

A moment of rapid breathing. "Dawes is dead."

_"Dawes_ is dead?" This took a moment to sink in. "David Dawes? How? Don't tell me he died of his injuries!"

"No!" Daniel sounded a little exasperated now. "I don't know _how_ he was killed, Jack. Just that General Hammond was talking to somebody on the phone and they told him that Dawes was dead. And that you'd killed him. They said they had eyewitnesses and everything and that the police are on their way." He ran out of breath at the end and fell silent, waiting.

Jack swore.

"Well, didn't the son of a bitch just pick a wonderful time to get himself killed!" When there was silence on the other end of the phone, he added, "If it makes you feel better, Daniel, I didn't do it. I seriously doubt anybody's gonna believe me now, though."

Shit. He could see and hear them coming, heading for his house, the … black suburbans?

They absolutely screamed N-I-freakin-D.

Which meant one thing: he was being framed like a family photo, and he wasn't going to take it sitting down.

Carefully, he hung up the phone. And by the time the black suburbans pulled up in front of his house and agents swarmed out like so many fire ants with guns, he was long gone.

Running.

From the ghosts that grasped at his heels.

From the accusations of those who had once trusted him.

Because it might be the only way to stay alive.


	4. Chapter Four

_I dare you to move_

_I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor_

_I dare you to move like today never happened_

_Today never happened before …_

— _Switchfoot, "I Dare You To Move"_

__

_

* * *

_

She had always loved summer evenings.

She loved everything about them — the murky pale blue sky, the gentle breeze, the smell of flowers drifting in from the tiny garden at the corner of the yard. But now, now that her life had become so different from the way she would once have imagined it, summer evenings were adrift with memories.

Running her fingers through her short blond hair, she sat down on the edge of the back porch and wrapped her arms around herself. It was getting chilly, and stars were appearing, dotting the darkening sky like bits of shattered glass scattered on a velvet curtain. Every sound was magnified in the crisp air — the barking of a dog somewhere toward the end of the neighborhood, the laughter of children a few houses over.

It was the laughter she missed most.

This house had been filled with laughter once. Children tend to do that. The world is so new to them; everything is so wonderful and breathtaking and awe-inspiring. She still remembered how much joy it had brought to see her son's enthusiasm over things which had long since become mundane to her.

Children opened the eyes of adults to a whole new world of wonders, hidden beneath the ordinary, just waiting for discovery.

Her eyes had been closed for a long time now.

At first, she thought she had imagined the voice — that it was a mind-concocted echo, born of her desperate desire to return to happier times. The second time it came, she knew she it was really there. She turned her head, searching the shadows, and when she saw his face, she wanted to cry.

He looked tired. There were dark hollows under his eyes and even though he tried to smile when she saw him, it was easy to tell that he was worn.

"Hi, Sara," he said softly.

She swallowed the tears that welled unbidden. This wasn't the time to cry. Not here, not now. She had to be tough. She would ask him politely what brought him here, what he needed. She _would not_ cry.

"Jack." That wasn't a catch in her voice. It _wasn't._ "What are you doing here?"

He took a step closer, one hand starting to reach out toward her, then dropping back to his side. She could tell he didn't know what to say. She should be able to tell — she knew his body language like the back of her hand.

_Stop, Sara. Just stop._

"I — I need your help. I've — " he cleared his throat. "I've gotten myself into a little bit of trouble."

_Again?_ She wanted to say, but didn't.

"You need _my_ help? How can I — ?" She fluttered her hand, trying to think of a way she could possibly help. He would know, by her mannerisms, what she was thinking. He was every bit as familiar with her body language as she was with his.

_Stop it!_

"I need a place. Somewhere to stay for a while." She automatically looked toward the house behind her, but he quickly said, "No. They'll be watching here soon, if they aren't already." She didn't bother to ask who _they_ were, because she had learned from years of experience that she would never get anything other than a vague answer.

_A place. Somewhere to stay for a while._ She wracked her brain, searching desperately for a house that would never be connected to her husba — her ex-husband.

"Caroline!"

"Huh?" Jack looked adorably confused. Sara had always loved it when he got that look on his face and —

_STOP, damn it!_

"My friend, Caroline Harney. We grew up together. You remember her, right? She's a schoolteacher. She's away on vacation for three more weeks and her house is just sitting empty."

His eyes sharpened, telling her that she might have come up with a good plan. She felt ridiculously proud of herself. "Do you know if anybody checks up on the house? Neighbors, anybody?"

Sara shook her head. "I'm pretty sure they don't. She didn't leave pets or anything, and she locked it up securely when she left."

Jack's face fell. "Darn. That could be a problem."

"Or not." She grinned a little, not even realizing she had used one of his expressions, not even seeing the wistful look in his eyes when she said it. "I have a key."

* * *

Jack O'Neill had decided that he liked Caroline Harney's house.

It wasn't fancy — not by any stretch of the imagination. Not on a schoolteacher's paycheck. It was, however, homey, and it had very thick blinds which were already drawn when he sneaked in the back door well after dark. He'd have to be careful about lights, of course. Caroline's neighbors knew she was gone, and any signs of life from within the supposedly empty house would be cause for suspicion.

He slept, fitfully, on the couch, and after the sun rose and light filtered in through the windows he went to the kitchen and found a box of decent granola bars. He vaguely remembered Caroline now — a plump, pleasant woman about Sara's age, dark-haired with a warm smile — and he hoped she could forgive him for eating her granola bars.

A house riddled with bullet holes probably wouldn't be quite so easy to forgive. But then, he was hoping it didn't come to that.

After he had consumed his meager breakfast, Jack returned to the living room and sat back down on the couch, noticing for the first time that one entire wall of the small living room was covered by a bookshelf. There were books of all kinds — children's books, predictably, but also many of the classics. Dickens, Hemingway, Thoreau, Shakespeare, London — even some Louis L'Amour and Zane Grey, surprisingly enough. _Ben Hur, Lorna Doone, Jane Eyre, Pride & Prejudice, The Catcher in the Rye, A Tale of Two Cities_ — the list went on and on. Caroline must love to read. He tried to remember whether she was an English teacher.

He felt uncomfortable perusing Caroline's library, as if he was prying into her life. Some of the books — obviously her favorites — were well-worn, some of the bindings frayed and the edges dog-eared. The cover of _Lorna Doone_ was held on with clear tape. A few of the books, presumably the newer ones, were in near mint condition.

He didn't dare turn on the TV for fear of neighbors hearing the noise, so he chose one of the newer books — Hemingway's _The Sun Also Rises_ — and went to the kitchen with it. Sitting in a worn wooden chair, he opened the book and tried not to think about his team; they'd be worried about him by now. He tried not to wonder how he'd clear himself of this, if he ever could.

And he tried not to think of Sara.

* * *

Colonel O'Neill wouldn't call the SGC. Sam knew he wouldn't. He'd been in Black Ops; he knew how to hide when hiding was required. Calling them would be the last thing he'd do under the circumstances.

But she still lunged for the phone every time it rang.

Small consolation that Daniel did the same. They were both constantly on edge; Teal'c may well have been also, but it was harder to tell with him. Daniel had whispered to them what he'd done, and now he was second-guessing himself.

Maybe he shouldn't have called.

Maybe it had made things worse.

"You did what you thought was right, Daniel," she kept telling him. "Now we just have to wait and see what happens." The words were little consolation, she knew, because he hated waiting every bit as much as she did.

The phone rang.

Sam grabbed for it, her fingers so slick with sweat that it nearly slipped from her grasp. Holding it in both hands, she lifted it to her face and spoke, her voice shaky. "Hello?"

"Major Carter. I need to talk to you concerning a mutual friend. Check at the usual site for instructions."

The line went dead. She stared at the phone.

_"Maybourne?"_

Daniel's eyes lit up hopefully when she relayed the seemingly nonsensical message to him. "I think I know what he's talking about," he said. "When you were kidnapped by Adrian Conrad's people, Jack left Maybourne a message on some silly internet site. He probably wants us to check the same site for instructions. It's not like he could tell us where to meet him over the base phone line."

Fifteen minutes and a little computer hacking later, they had a time and a place — and the hope that the rat-turned-reluctant-ally could come through for them again.

* * *

A crash woke O'Neill.

He was instantly still and alert, every sense on edge as he lay tense, waiting for another sound. Only silence greeted his ears, and after a moment, he realized the crash had come from a source rather close to home.

He had fallen out of the chair.

_Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! You are a freakin' idiot, O'Neill!_

The book was lying on the floor next to him, facedown with several pages crumpled awkwardly under it. He picked it up, smoothed it as best he could, and returned it to the bookshelf.

Why couldn't he have decided to read on the couch? Why couldn't luck have been with him, just this once in his life? Was that too much to ask?

Jack dared lift a corner of one blind to peer at the house on his left. It was dark and silent, its occupants evidently not at home. So far, so good. Next, he checked the house on the right. Damn. Not so good. There were lights on in the kitchen, and a window was open — he could see the screen moving gently in and out with the undulating breeze.

_God, please let them be deaf._

One thing was for sure: he couldn't move now without being noticed, and it was hours until dark. He fingered the key Sara had given him. If he could just make it here until nightfall, he'd leave and lock the door behind him, with only a few missing granola bars testifying that he was ever there.

_Please. Just this once, let me be ignored until dark._

* * *

"Hello, Major."

Harry Maybourne gave a slightly slimy smile and sat down across from Sam Carter, inspecting the food she'd been pushing around on her plate. "Looks good. What is it?"

"I have no idea. It's the first thing the waiter recommended." She shoved the plate toward him. "You can have it if you want."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I've already eaten." Opening his briefcase, Maybourne took out a small stack of files and placed them on the table, moving aside the plate. "Looks like our favorite Colonel has gotten himself into trouble. Again."

Sam didn't say anything.

Maybourne smiled. "You should be interested, Major Carter, to know that the transferal of David Dawes to the SGC was directly ordered by none other than Senator Robert Kinsey. I would bet a lot of money that the good Senator knew at least some of the details of the feud between the two. I'd also bet that Dawes was specifically told to taunt and torment Jack O'Neill until he finally snapped."

"You think he did it?" Sam asked in disbelief. "You think Colonel O'Neill finally snapped, and killed Dawes?"

"No." A shake of the head. "Although I must admit I wouldn't blame him too much if he had. Jack isn't that stupid, Major, as you should know. If he was going to kill someone, he would have done so discreetly. God knows he has enough experience." Sam flinched a little at the unwanted reminder of her CO's rather dark past.

"According to the three eyewitnesses, David Dawes was in a McDonald's parking lot, about to get into his car, when Jack O'Neill walked up behind him and fired three shots into his back at close range. Dawes died at the scene before help could be summoned. Here's the autopsy report — " he slapped down another file " — and it agrees with the story. Three shots in the back, from a 9 mil, close range, death almost instantaneous."

"But?"

"But … " A picture left the briefcase and joined the growing pile of documents on the table between them. It showed a youngish man, probably in his thirties, with dark hair and shifty eyes. "One of the 'eyewitnesses' is Ron Caidman. Ron's got a history of testifying to anything, if he gets paid off well enough. Seeing that he was involved made me suspicious, so I looked up the other two 'eyewitnesses'." Two more pictures joined Ron's — one of a woman in her forties and the other of a man a little younger.

"Meet Martha Gonzalez and Shawn Anderson. Both were definitely present at the scene. They're the perfect citizens — neither of them has done anything worse than get a speeding ticket. Both of them also have families."

"You think they were threatened? Blackmailed?"

"Probably. And I'm sure it doesn't hurt that their bank accounts have suddenly gotten a lot richer. Both of them were struggling pretty bad financially. Most people, even those who consider themselves honest, have a price, Major Carter."

Leaning her elbows on the table, Sam ran her fingers through her short, spiky blond hair. "So what's the going price on a man's soul these days, Maybourne?" She asked wearily.

"One million dollars. For each 'eyewitness'." Maybourne leaned forward intently. "Major, we'd have a good shot at destroying the entire case against O'Neill if we could get one of those eyewitnesses to talk. I'm thinking maybe you can help."

_"Me?"_

Maybourne cleared his throat. "Well, not you exactly, but someone you work with. I seem to recall being threatened with dismemberment at one point. And while I'm sure I hid it well, that threat was quite intimidating coming from your Jaffa friend."

"Teal'c? You want Teal'c to threaten one of them?" Carter paused mid-motion, considering this new course of action. It was better than nothing, she decided.

"I suggest Ron Caidman, Major. Take him for a friendly little ride and see what happens. He scares easily."

"And you would know that from experience?" Sam asked with a faint smile, the first hint of such he had seen from her. Maybourne merely shrugged.

Major Carter sighed and gathered the stack of files Maybourne shoved toward her, then rose to leave. "Thanks, Maybourne. If you find anything else out, let me know."

* * *

The man was big.

Really big.

He was like a football player. No, scratch that — he was like _two_ football players rolled into one. Big, hulking, and silent, with a vicious glare directed unwaveringly at his guest.

Ron Caidman was very, very frightened.

He had tried asking the big black man what was going on, but silence had met his queries. For what seemed an eternity — but in reality, probably wasn't more than fifteen or twenty minutes — they had been riding circles around Colorado Springs. The big man staring. Ron Caidman shaking.

He might consider trying to jump out of the car, if not for the fact that they were traveling more than sixty MPH. He'd tried talking to the driver, a blond woman who didn't look nearly as intimidating as the big man, but she had proved to be every bit as quiet as her companion.

The huge man moved closer.

Ron was already pressed up against the door, and when the dark eyes fixed fiercely on his and the big man made a move across the seat, he whimpered aloud.

He was _so_ going to die.

"RonCaidman."

It speaks! And it knows his name!

"Several days ago you received monetary compensation to provide a false eyewitness account of the killing of an Air Force Colonel." A huge hand shot out and wrapped effortlessly around Ron's neck, lifting him completely off the seat. As he choked and struggled ineffectively, the deep, calm voice continued, "It would be most beneficial to you to testify to the truth."

Ron made an incoherent gurgling sound. At the moment, he would have jumped through flaming hoops if that was what it took for the man to stop strangling him.

"After you are released, you will call this number — " A slip of paper was jammed into his coat pocket " — and you will confess that you were paid off and that you did not truly see Jack O'Neill shoot David Dawes. You will testify to this in court if needed. Do you understand?"

Ron nodded desperately, as well as he could nod with a hand around his throat.

"If at _any time_ you attempt to leave Colorado Springs, or to deviate from the truth, your personal health will be in immediate danger." The grip tightened for emphasis, making Ron's lips turn blue as he struggled for air. "Do you understand?"

Another desperate nod.

"Good."

The hand finally released him, then the car stopped. He was shoved forcefully out onto the sidewalk, and the plain blue sedan drove away.

Turning, he broke into a stumbling run, heading for the nearest payphone.

* * *

"Hammond."

For a moment, all General George Hammond could hear at the other end of the telephone were wheezing, bubbling gasps. Finally a weak, raspy voice said, "My name is Ron C-Caidman. I'm one of the eyewitnesses to the Dawes murder. I'm calling to tell you that I was p-paid off to say that O'Neill d-did it. I don't know who did the paying, I swear to God. I just know that they paid me a million dollars."

Hammond's mouth dropped open in disbelief.

"Caidman," he said finally, "are you willing to testify about this in court?"

"Yes!" Ron squeaked. "Y-yes!"

"Where are you?" Hammond wrote down the location on a notepad, then added, "I'm sending somebody out to pick you up. Don't go anywhere."

"I w-won't."

_Rather abrupt change of heart there,_ the General thought after hanging up the phone. Then he remembered the wheezing sound of the man's breath, and the self-satisfied smirk that had been on Teal'c's face all morning, and the puzzle pieces suddenly fit together. Hammond coughed, trying desperately not to laugh.

Once again, SG-1 had taken matters into their own hands. He could only hope they would be as fortunate this time as they had been in the past.

Jack O'Neill's life might depend on it.


	5. Chapter Five

_And I find, it's my fault_

_I'm the only one to blame_

_For the tears and the pain_

_I don't know what I can say_

_Or would it matter anyway_

_'Cause I don't know how you could still forgive me … _

— _Third Day, "I Don't Know"_

_

* * *

_

"But what if there's a burglar in there?"

George Cassidy groaned inwardly, trying to ignore his wife's voice as he read the newspaper. Harriet Cassidy, queen of indecision, had been see-sawing back and forth for at least an hour, ever since she had heard a resounding _whump _from the direction of their neighbor's house.

"It would be so embarrassing to call those nice young policemen out here for nothing," Harriet said thoughtfully. "It probably isn't anything. Just a noise, that's all. Caroline's house is all locked up, and we never heard a window break or anything."

George nodded absent-mindedly, knowing his wife would probably continue the back-and-forth reasoning for another hour at least. Suddenly, his eyes fell on an article that made him smile triumphantly. With this, he knew he could guarantee himself a rapid end to his wife's prattling.

"Harriet, look at this." He lifted the paper so his wife could see the headline. She leaned close, squinting near-sightedly. "It says that a suspected murderer is loose in Colorado Springs."

"Oh! Oh, my!" Harriet's hands fluttered around her throat, as if she might faint. He almost wished she would. "I'm very glad you showed me that, George. I just bet it's him. He's hiding out in poor Caroline's house waiting for her to come back so he can murder her."

Harriet fluttered away for a telephone, fanning her face dramatically, and with a smile, George settled down to read his newspaper in peace and quiet.

* * *

The knock on the back door, quiet and timid, shocked Jack out of a near-stupor. Praying desperately that it wasn't a curious neighbor, he walked as quietly as he could to the door and looked out the peephole. Sara's face stared back anxiously at him.

Jack unlocked the door, and she opened it and stepped inside. "I thought I told you to stay home!" He whispered urgently, surprised by her sudden appearance.

"I didn't drive; I rode my bike, and Caroline's neighbors know me. They'll just think I'm over here checking on her house while she's on vacation. I had to talk to you." Sara's beautiful face was pale. "Jack, did you do it? Please. I have to know."

"Did I kill Dawes?" Jack gave a short laugh. "I figured you'd hear about that sooner or later. No, Sara, I didn't kill him. I'm trying to find out who did."

She nodded, then dropped her head, looking down at the floor, where she was scuffing one foot along the rug. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted. I just — I had to ask you."

"Hey." He reached out to lift her chin until she was looking into his eyes. "You have _nothing_ to be sorry for." His voice was soft but firm. "You know it's my fault. I've always been the one to blame."

They both knew he wasn't speaking only of recent events.

She shook her head hopelessly. "It doesn't have to be anybody's fault, Jack. Will you ever forgive yourself?" Her voice was clogged with tears.

"No. I can't, Sara. I'm sorry."

Sara's face crumpled and she blinked rapidly. "I am too, because that's the reason I left. I forgave you, Jack, a long time ago. I just couldn't sit by and watch you destroy yourself. I couldn't."

"I know." Jack almost smiled. "It's okay."

Was it really? It had never felt okay. Not for even one single day since she left.

He reached out for her, and she stepped into his arms as she had so many times before. It was then that they heard the sirens.

Jack dragged her to the back door. "You say you know the neighbors?" He questioned rapidly. At Sara's nod, he said, "Go over there, quick, and go inside. Tell them you were just about to check on Caroline's house when you heard the sirens. Tell them you were scared or whatever. As soon as you get a chance, go back home. Don't let the police see you."

She nodded again. "Jack … where — ?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll be okay. Don't worry." He gave her a half-smile. "Take care of yourself, Sara." A quick peck on the cheek, and then he was gone.

Dragging her bicycle, Sara made it into the Cassidys' house just before the black suburbans pulled up outside.

From inside, she heard the shouts, and her heart dropped through the floor.

They had seen Jack.

* * *

As a teenager, Jack O'Neill had loved track meets. There was something about running he had always enjoyed — perhaps it was merely the cadence he established, a melody of breathing and footsteps.

In. Out. Left. Right. In. Out. Left. Right.

Yes, he'd always loved to run.

It wasn't quite as much fun, however, when one was being shot at.

Only one of the shots had come anywhere near him. He had chanced one glance backward, that glance telling him all he needed to know — that he was being pursued by slimy N.I.D agents, and that he was in deep shit.

The neighborhood was quiet. He hadn't seen many people around. Of course, that could be partly because they'd all taken shelter inside their houses when they heard sirens and gunshots.

But in the yard up ahead, on the left, there was a teenage girl sitting on the porch, her head bent over a book as she read intently. He couldn't see her face — only a cascade of long reddish brown hair. Why hadn't she been frightened away by the shots?

On cue, there was another shot from behind him, a yell to surrender. The muscles in his legs screamed from exertion, and his bad knee was near to collapsing. His lungs burned and he had to gasp for the breath to shout at the girl, "Run! Get out of here!"

No response. She sat on her front porch reading serenely, a perfect snapshot of Americana — the redheaded teenager in a long green dress, sitting on the steps on a summer evening.

There was another gunshot from behind him, and the girl's head jerked up. For an instant he thought she had finally heard and comprehended the danger she was in.

And then he saw her eyes.

They were green and wide behind wire-rimmed glasses. And they were full of terror. The book fell to the ground, and she reached out an arm to break her fall, only to discover that all strength had left her body.

There was blood. On her back. On her dress. On the ground. After she fell, she didn't move again.

Jack skidded to a stop, heedless of the consequences. He didn't care any more.

"No!" He heard himself shouting, his voice raw. "God, _no!"_

The girl lay where she had fallen, a crimson stain spreading on the porch next to her. Just another child dying because of Jack O'Neill. Just one more pair of shocked, terrified eyes to accuse him every night.

Another child's eyes to join Charlie's.

* * *

"Major Davis, I want you to meet Ron Caidman."

Major Paul Davis looked at Caidman, then back to General George Hammond, his expression one of mild bemusement. Hammond smiled cheerfully. "Caidman is one of the eyewitnesses to the Dawes murder, Major. He is willing to testify, in court if necessary, that he and both of the other eyewitnesses were paid to identify Jack O'Neill as the killer."

Davis' mouth dropped open as Hammond placed a heavy stack of files on the desk in front of him. "I'm sure you'll find something in here to catch your interest, Major Davis. This disk — " He held up a CD in a clear plastic case " — contains a record of e-mail correspondence between Robert Langden — Senator Kinsey's Head of Security — and an unidentified N.I.D assassin called only 'Tike'. The first e-mail is titled 'DD project'. They get progressively more interesting after that."

Major Davis shook his head slowly, then couldn't resist a smile. "I suppose I shouldn't ask where you got this information, sir."

"No, Major," Hammond responded seriously, "you probably shouldn't."

Davis began reading some of the top pages, shaking his head in disbelief at the sheer thoroughness of the information compiled here. There was only one man willing to help the SGC who had access — legal or otherwise — to files like these. Of course, he wasn't going to say the name "Maybourne".

The setup had been carefully planned and almost perfectly executed. Considering O'Neill's past hostilities toward Dawes, it had been easy to transfer the decorated Lt. Colonel to the SGC. After which, of course, O'Neill had severely damaged his own case by attacking Dawes, in public, twice.

If the Lt. Colonel was killed, O'Neill would come up as the first suspect. Of course, he had to be let out on bail, and that too had been taken care of. A hired assassin and a few phony eyewitnesses later, and O'Neill's goose would seem to be cooked.

The orchestrators of this plan had failed to consider only two factors, the first being the tenacity of the other three members of SG-1. The second factor was, of course, Harry Maybourne. Combined, the two factors had proven fatal to what should have been a flawless plan.

Davis was grinning like an idiot when he left Hammond's office.

* * *

At the voice behind him, O'Neill turned slowly, his hands held out away from his body. The N.I.D agent facing him smiled a little, then looked pointedly at the limp figure of the girl. No one had come to her aid; she must have been home alone. She looked pathetically alone, lying so still next to her book.

"I don't suppose this would mean much to you, would it?" The other man asked casually. "Just another in the long line of children you've killed, or so I hear. Although I wouldn't have expected one of them to be your own son. Not even from you."

Something snapped, and Jack launched himself at the agent, struggling for possession of the gun. He fought a losing battle from the beginning. His opponent was three inches taller than him and forty pounds heavier, and Jack was exhausted.

The gun barrel turned toward him, and there was no time for regrets. Only an instant of realization, then the shot.

The impact preceded the sound. Then white-hot pain, the shattering of bone, the rending of flesh.

He fell.


	6. Chapter Six

_Author's Note: It should be pointed out that, while I have visited Colorado a number of times and have thoroughly enjoyed each visit, my knowledge of its geography is still rather limited. I do not know whether Fairplay, Colorado, is truly in the mountains, but if it isn't just pretend it is, okay? LOL. My sincere apologies to anyone from Colorado who resents my ignorance of your lovely state!_

_ And, yet another author's note: I had to work the lyrics of this song into the story somewhere. I mean, how many other songs have you heard that say 'for cryin' out loud?'_

_

* * *

_

_I try to make you proud_

_But for cryin' out loud_

_Just give me a chance to hide away_

_Exhaustion takes over_

_Will this someday be over?_

_— Jars of Clay, "He"_

_

* * *

_

There were voices somewhere, but he wasn't sure where. They were very close at first, then far away, then close again. He couldn't tell whether they were flickering, or he was.

"Get him in the car," one of the voices said, and then hands touched him and it hurt, oh God it hurt, and he tried to tell them to go away but all that came out was a pathetic groan.

He was lifted and placed on a softer surface, and a door slammed behind him. Something pressed against his shoulder and he writhed, trying not to scream, trying not to be consumed by the licking flames of agony.

"Stop it, you fool!" One of the close voices said impatiently. "I'm trying to stop the bleeding." Then, to another voice: "His collarbone's shattered like glass and he's bleeding everywhere. Did you _have_ to shoot him?"

"He went for my gun!"

"Which you provoked him to do, and you know it." Voice Number One was obviously exasperated. "If we don't get him to a hospital, he'll die."

"You know the instructions," Voice Two snapped. "We're to take him to a secure facility. Nowhere else."

"Whatever. If he dies, it's your problem."

"Ah, shut up." Voice Number Two didn't sound too agreeable. "Just put a bandage on it. He'll live."

* * *

"Hammond."

Sara O'Neill nervously played with the phone cord, wrapping it round and round her finger, as she tried to figure out what to say. "Mr. — I mean, General — this is Sara O'Neill. Jack's wi — ex-wife."

"Ms. O'Neill? Do you have any news of Colonel O'Neill?" The General sounded concerned. Maybe he was someone she could trust. She didn't know much about him — only that Jack trusted him, and if Jack did, she was certain she could as well.

"I — I helped Jack. I gave him a place to stay." Sara hiccupped, which was vastly embarrassing. "But I think they found him. The last I saw they were chasing him, and then there were sh-shots, and I didn't know what to do so I just came home and … "

"It's okay, ma'am. You did the right thing." General Hammond's voice was gentle. He knew Jack O'Neill had once been deeply in love with this woman, and by all indications the feelings had never completely died. "Can you tell me where this happened?"

Sara gave him directions to Caroline Harney's neighborhood, then hesitated. "General?" She said timidly. "Do they still think Jack killed that man?"

"No, ma'am." _I never thought so,_ he added mentally, then continued, "We've recently uncovered evidence that Jack was framed. Now we just need to bring him back home safely. Thanks to your call, we might be able to do just that."

* * *

The world was hazy for a time, spinning wildly in and out of focus. Reality fluctuated — rushing into focus and overwhelming his senses, then fading randomly back out in the midst of a conversation by The Voices or a song on the radio.

Each time he almost woke up, there were two constants: searing pain, and the feeling of being in motion. Jack knew he was riding in a vehicle — he just didn't know how long he'd been there or where he was going.

"Watch where you're going," Voice One said suddenly, sounding annoyed. Not that that was anything new. Voice One seemed to be exasperated with Voice Two most of the time.

"But I don't like this song," Voice Two whined. Ah. He must be fiddling with the radio. Jack couldn't help but agree about the song — the twangy-voiced country singer sounded like he was being accompanied by an entire pack of hound dogs. Which was strange, because the song was lamenting the loss of a hound dog. Jack personally felt that the singer must have plenty left to replace the lost one.

"Look _out!"_ Voice One shouted suddenly, his voice rising almost to a scream on the last word. Tires screeched and Jack's head spun dizzily.

An instant later, the world exploded in his face.

* * *

When he regained consciousness, all was silent and still.

For a horrific instant he thought he was deaf, and panic rose in his throat. He forced his eyes open and saw red carpet.

It took him a moment to realize that the carpet had not always been red; it was soaked in blood. Large amounts of blood. He sincerely hoped it wasn't his — not all of it, anyway.

Dim light was filtering in from somewhere, and he squinted his eyes against it, realizing suddenly that he had the mother of all headaches. Damn. Not _another_ concussion.

Why was everything so still?

He lay quietly for a moment, hoping someone — preferably a benevolent someone — would show up and answer his unspoken question. Eventually it occurred to him that he was unlikely to help his own cause by lying facedown in a floorboard, staring at bloodstained carpet.

So he moved.

Which hurt like hell, predictably, and drew an agonized yell that could probably be heard for miles around. O'Neill vaguely remembered Voice One saying something about a shattered collarbone. He didn't doubt it one bit. Actually, he wouldn't have been surprised to find that every last bone in his chest had been reduced to mere fragments.

The suburban was not moving because it was wrapped around a large tree, and Voice Two was dead.

He had been thrown through the windshield, and his death had been mercifully swift, if not pleasant to look upon. Voice One, who had been in the back seat with Jack, was still alive — he was deeply unconscious and bleeding from a head wound but his pulse was steady.

O'Neill was curiously inspecting Voice One's injury when he suddenly realized that he had been presented with an opportunity to escape.

Sweet!

There was the problem of getting the door open, but after a few tries the handle released and it creaked open just far enough for him to squeeze through, its bent and twisted metal shrieking protest. Jack held his injured arm protectively against his chest, but even so, every step, every small moment hurt indescribably.

Once outside of the vehicle, Jack looked around, his vision blurring and fading in and out. He was standing beneath a large pine tree by the side of a mountain road — he had no idea _which_ mountain road, or whether he was even still in Colorado, but he did know one thing: he didn't want to risk getting caught again.

So he walked away from the road, off into the woods, setting a haphazard course for the safety of the trees. His mind was fuzzy, his thoughts unfocused, and he knew only one thing: that he could not be captured. He had to hide. It never occurred to him that he would die within hours unless he received help.

Behind him, a small plume of smoke rose from the wreck, then faded away into the silence.

* * *

"There were no official police reports that Colonel O'Neill had been captured."

Major Paul Davis leaned forward a little, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. It was one of the few times that Major Samantha Carter had ever seen the normally poised officer look worn and tired. "So," Sam said, voicing the thoughts of everyone else in the room, "that means that either he's still free, or the N.I.D has him."

"I'd say the second possibility is the most plausible right now, Major Carter." Davis sighed. "Less than an hour ago, a wrecked suburban was discovered in the mountains near Fairplay, Colorado. It was positively ID'd as a N.I.D vehicle. There were two agents at the scene — one had been killed on impact, and the other was taken to the hospital in serious condition."

"And?" Daniel asked impatiently.

"And … there was a great deal of blood in the back floorboard. The agent who died was thrown through the windshield, and while the surviving agent was in the back seat, he didn't lose nearly that much. Samples of the blood were tested, and the DNA is a match for Colonel O'Neill's."

"Oh God." Sam leaned forward, squeezing her eyes shut as the moan escaped almost in the shape of a prayer. Beside her she heard Daniel's breath catch, and she reached out blindly for him, feeling his hand take hers and squeeze it gently. She knew he was scared, too.

"The obvious conclusion," Davis continued, "is that Colonel O'Neill was also injured in the accident, but not badly enough that he was unable to walk away. We've got teams out searching the surrounding area, but so far there are no signs of him. I suppose we all know that he's good at hiding when he doesn't want to be found."

"We're joining the search," Sam and Daniel said together. The blond Major looked toward General Hammond, who nodded his assent.

Davis scrunched up his face slightly, obviously having anticipated those very words. "Dr. Jackson, Major Carter, this isn't exactly — "

"O'Neill is our leader and our friend," Teal'c said, his dark face impassive. "We will not be prevented from searching for him."

Major Davis nodded slowly. "All right. I assume you'll be wanting to leave right away."

"That's right." The three remaining members of SG-1 rose to leave the room. Almost through the doorway, they were stopped by General Hammond's voice.

"Bring him home, people," he said softly.

Sam smiled a little. "Yes, sir. We will."

* * *

Molly loved summer.

Christened Molly May McDougal, she had very straight dark brown hair and hazel eyes that hovered somewhere between green and brown. At thirteen, she was still a tomboy, long and lanky with sharp angles rather than curves, preferring to hike or climb trees rather than fix her hair or go to parties.

Molly's beauty queen mother was always saying, hopefully, that her only child would outgrow 'this stage' very soon. Actually, she had been saying that most of Molly's life, and even she was starting to give up hope.

Personality wasn't the only thing Molly had failed to inherit from her mother. She had pretty eyes, but everything else was thoroughly plain and ordinary. Molly was more than accustomed to the incessant compliments paid to those who, like her, had only one feature of consequence.

"What beautiful eyes!"

"Your eyes are stunning, truly they are."

"What I wouldn't give to have eyelashes like yours."

Rubbing her hands on her faded jeans to get rid of clinging dirt and pine needles, Molly smiled slightly. She was well aware that her eyes received such praise for one reason only: because they were her only feature attractive enough to be complimented.

It didn't hurt her feelings.

Not any more.

It had not always been easy growing up the plain daughter of a beautiful woman, but Molly had eventually discovered that physical beauty was not required to enjoy the things she loved most.

She had eyes with which to gaze at a deep blue Colorado sky and view the delicate, fluttering gold of Aspens in fall.

She had legs — strong legs — with which to hike and climb, sometimes all day, scaling shale slides and old, gnarled pine trees.

She had ears with which to hear the first birdsong of dawn outside her window, the gentle lonely whisper of wind on peaks above the tree line, the …

… Drunken singing filtering through the trees?

Caught between curiosity and sheer terror, Molly crept forward, peering cautiously toward the source of the sound. What she saw made her mouth fall open in disbelief and horror.

The man singing was certainly delirious. He was also very badly injured. His clothes were caked in blood, and one arm hung limply at a horribly crooked angle. A dark red trail of congealing blood down his face indicated a head injury.

The granola bar did not taste nearly as good on the way back up.

Yet another characteristic Molly had omitted to inherit from her Registered Nurse mother was the ability to withstand the sight of blood. A paper cut could make her swoon, if it bled enough.

And this was a _lot_ of blood.

Too much blood.

How could he still be alive?

The song had deteriorated into mostly incoherent mumblings interspersed with agonized groans, presumably when the injured man jarred his shattered shoulder.

"Mine eyes … oh, God! … have seen the … aah … glory of the … ah shit! … coming of the … "

This was the strangest thing she had ever seen. By far. The one-eyed ferret attacking a Rottweiler, and _winning_, did not even compare.

Once, years ago, Molly had read a news story about a severely injured woman staggering unaided down the sidewalks of New York City, completely ignored by passersby. Later, she had discussed the story with her mother.

"I'd probably help before I could stop and think what I was getting myself into," Mrs. McDougal had said.

After a moment of thought, Molly had replied, "I'd help even if I knew what I was getting into, because I'd never be able to forgive myself if I didn't."

Now, years later, the hypothetical situation had come to life before her. She got up, brushing the leaves off her knees, and started toward the injured man.

Because she couldn't just stand back and watch him die.

* * *

A/N: Molly is patterned after me in one way — her eyes. I'm very plain, and the only pretty feature I have is my eyes. I'm always getting compliments on them because of that. I figured I might as well make Molly suffer the same fate. Evil Grin 


	7. Chapter Seven

_Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to my severely squeamish father, who cannot stand the sight of blood. Consider yourself lucky that you've never had to deal with this kind of situation, Daddy!_

_

* * *

_

_I breathe so softly, don't feel too content_

_Apathy whispers and makes me think_

_Am I just another man whose time went fast?_

_I don't want to live dying on the inside … _

— _Skillet, "Your Love (Keeps Me Alive)"_

__

* * *

"I guess this is where we get off."

Sam could see the scarring on the side of the big pine tree where the suburban had hit. The wrecked vehicle had been towed away, but bits of broken glass remained on the ground at the site, crunching under her feet.

Daniel was looking at the mountains around them, feeling overwhelmed. "Where do we even start?" He asked dejectedly. "There are so many places he could be."

"I know, Daniel, but there are a lot of people out looking for him. And as much as I hate to say it, I doubt he could get far as badly injured as he is."

Jackson sighed. "You're probably right, Sam. I guess we'd better get started."

* * *

Molly McDougal knew what needed to be done. She just didn't think she could do it.

She could probably clean and bandage the head wound — it wasn't that bad. Even a squeamish teenager can't avoid learning _something_ about first aid with a nurse for a mother.

The gunshot wound was a completely different matter, however.

Someone had bandaged it, but the bandage was pathetically insufficient and already completely blood soaked. She knew she needed to replace it, but every time she so much as looked at the shattered shoulder, last night's supper tried to make an appearance.

After several tries, she had finally managed to get a name out of the injured man. Jack. He hadn't given a last name; in his current state he probably couldn't even _remember_ his last name.

She had helped him to her house, supporting as much of his weight as her slender frame could bear. Plan A had been to stop the bleeding and call 911. That plan had gone out the window when she had picked up the telephone.

Jack had panicked, becoming so agitated that she was afraid he'd hurt himself further. "No!" He had shouted. "No, don' … call. Can't know … I'm here. Please … have to hide. Don' tell them … please."

Torn, she had tried to convince him that he desperately needed medical help, but he had responded with the same vehement refusal. In slurred, desperate tones, he had insisted that he must not be found.

And, finally, she had reluctantly given in and put down the phone. Maybe he was running from the law, she thought, and the idea scared her, but eventually she decided he was no danger to her in his current condition.

Molly knew she should call the police and get the man the medical help he needed. Fugitive or not, he was in desperate need of a hospital.

But when he fixed pleading brown eyes on her face, she melted.

And, finally, she agreed to hide him.

* * *

The door to the cellar was in Molly's back yard. She hadn't been down there in a long time; she knew her mother hadn't either. It took all her strength to wrestle the door open. On her first trip down, she took an armful of blankets to make a pallet. Next came the part she dreaded: getting Jack into the cellar without having him fall and break his neck.

With much groaning on Jack's part and apologizing on Molly's, the injured man finally reached his haven. Molly lowered him gently to the blankets, trying not to jar his injured shoulder, and told him she'd be back soon. He nodded vaguely, and his eyes closed as soon as she turned to go. From the amount of blood he'd lost, she was surprised he was still conscious.

She went back to the house for medical supplies — which were fortunately plentiful in her house — and water. By the time she returned to the cellar, Jack had passed out.

"All right, Molly," she said sternly to herself. "This is the best chance you're gonna get. If you try to clean that wound while he's unconscious, it'll hurt too much."

Maybe she could try doing it with her eyes closed.

_Yeah, in your dreams, McDougal._

Her hands shook uncontrollably as she carefully untied the bandage and eased it away from Jack's shoulder. When she saw the wound, black spots danced in front of her eyes and she had to leave for a moment to quietly retch in the corner.

An eternity and much painful gagging later, Molly had cleaned and disinfected the wound as well as she could. The fact that Jack hadn't stirred told her how deeply unconscious he must be, and suddenly frightened, she touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there — weak, but definitely there.

She bandaged his shoulder awkwardly, desperately wishing she had her mother's confident, deft hands. Once the bandage was in place, she made a sort of sling for Jack's injured arm, carefully tying it across his chest so he wouldn't inadvertently cause more damage.

At some point during the ordeal, Molly had become too woozy to kneel and was now sprawled next to her patient, half-propped up by one shaky elbow. She wiped the dried blood off his face, then cleaned the nasty bump on the side of his head. When that task was completed, she gave a sigh of relief.

"Thank God. It's over."

While attempting to get up, Molly glanced down at her hands and saw the blood staining her palms, caked under her fingernails. She promptly passed out.

* * *

She came to some time later, lying face down on the floor. For a moment she was confused — she felt like she'd been through a wringer, or run over by a herd of wild horses. Then memory returned, and she pushed herself up and crawled over to Jack, frantically feeling for a pulse.

He was still alive, but his skin was cool and clammy. He was in shock, and in the dim light his lips looked almost white. He'd lost so much blood. Molly tried to awaken him so he could drink the water his body desperately needed, but he was deeply unconscious and didn't respond to her efforts.

Glancing down at her watch, Molly suddenly remembered that her mother was due home soon. She didn't want to leave Jack alone, but she had to get back to the house. Karin McDougal would panic if she came home and Molly wasn't there. The woman was always nervous about leaving her thirteen-year-old daughter home alone all day.

"Jack." Molly leaned close to him, until her lips were almost touching his ear. "I'll be back, do you hear me? I promise."

She started to walk away, then turned back to look at him again. She couldn't help but think that he must be a strikingly handsome man when healthy — his body was lean and muscular and he had nice, even features. Right now he just looked desperately ill.

Molly had to force herself to leave.

* * *

Molly nearly lost consciousness again while scrubbing her hands and watching the reddish water swirl down the drain, but by the time Mrs. McDougal arrived home from work, the teenager was squeaky-clean and acting as casual as she could manage. She was curled up on the couch with a book when her mother walked in.

Despite Molly's best efforts, her thoughts kept straying back to Jack. As a result, her mother asked her no less than five times if there was something wrong. Finally Molly said she was just very tired and needed to go to bed.

"Okay, hon. Get some sleep. Maybe you'll feel better in the morning." Karin McDougal gave her daughter a tender smile, which made Molly feel slightly guilty. "Don't forget to brush your teeth."

"Mo-om." Molly rolled her eyes, then smiled and opened her arms for a hug. Karin smelled faintly of perfume, and she brushed a kiss on the top of her daughter's head as the hug ended.

In her room, Molly couldn't keep her thoughts from straying back to Jack, and the predicament she found herself in. She desperately wanted to tell her mother about him — Karin knew so much more about treating wounds — but she knew that if she did, two things would happen. The police would be called immediately, and Molly herself would receive the upbraiding of her life.

Jack had been adamant that no one, _no one,_ know he was there. He had practically begged her not to tell anyone.

But what if he died? He was badly injured and needed help. How could she ever forgive herself if he died? Was she really helping him by hiding him this way?

She tossed and turned until fifteen minutes after her mother's light finally went out. Karin McDougal always fell asleep within ten minutes of getting into bed, and slept like a log. She often had to be physically shaken before she would wake up.

Even so, Molly tiptoed carefully into the kitchen, where she took a flashlight out of a cabinet and warmed up a bowl of soup in the microwave. She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could, and headed out to the cellar. Somehow, she got down the stairs without spilling the soup.

Before she even saw Jack, she knew he had awakened. She could hear his harsh, rapid breathing and knew he was frightened or tense or both. "Jack?" She said softly, suddenly feeling a shiver of fear. "Jack, it's just me, Molly. I'm here to help you, remember?"

A small voice came from the direction of Jack's pallet. "Charlie?"

Molly stepped around a stack of boxes and saw Jack. He had managed to drag himself upright and was sitting propped against the wall, only his eyes speaking of the pain he must be in. He showed no recognition when he saw her face.

"Molly, Jack. I'm Molly." She knelt beside him and gave him a glass of water, helping him take several slow swallows. His skin was warm — too warm — and there was a fine layer of sweat on his forehead. Her stomach twisted as she realized he must be developing an infection. "It's okay. I'm here to help you."

"Carter? Daniel? Teal'c?" He became agitated suddenly, turning his head, his eyes sweeping the room. "Have to find my team. Did they get out?"

"Your … team? You were — you were alone when I found you." Molly had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

"Jaffa. Damn Jaffa. Every damn planet we visit, they're … waiting." He pushed away the spoonful of soup she tried to ladle into his mouth. "No. No. Gotta find my team."

"It's okay, Jack. I'm sure they're all right." Molly was getting scared again. There was a fierce look in Jack's brown eyes, a look that made her think she might have made a mistake by hiding him. She should call the police. She should walk out of here right now and call the police. There was something dark hiding behind this man's eyes, and she didn't think she wanted to find out what it was.

"Gould. You snakehead sons of bitches. God, no, don't let it take me. Snake, damn snake — noooo, get it off … " He was panicking, his good arm flailing. Frightened that he was going to hurt himself, Molly tried to capture his hand, hoping to calm him down. She made a big mistake.

Lights exploded in her head and she crashed into a stack of boxes, her ears ringing from the force of the blow. A sharp pain stabbed through her left hand, and dazedly looking down, she saw that she had landed on the shattered remnants of the soup bowl. A deep gash gaped across her palm.

Terrified, she tried to crawl away from Jack, only to find her back up against the wall. He was still raving about snakes and begging for his team.

Her eyes flooding with tears of pain, Molly crawled to her knees and slowly edged away toward the stairs. She would go to the house and call the police. It was what she should have done in the first place. She was a fool, and her stupidity could have cost both her life and Jack's.

The injured man suddenly seemed to see her. She froze, her heart pounding and her mouth suddenly dry. He could be a serial rapist or a murderer. What had she gotten herself into?

"Hey." His voice was suddenly calm, and something changed in his eyes. He was looking at her with concern, seeing the blood on her face and hand. "Are you okay? What happened?" He struggled to get up and go to her. Molly sat for a moment, open-mouthed at the transformation. Now he was _worried_ about her?

"I'm … I'm okay," she said timidly, wrapping the edge of her pajama top around her injured hand so he wouldn't see how bad the cut really was. "But you're hurt."

He waved that off with a shrug. "I'll be … all right. What happened?"

_Nothing much, except that you hit me,_ Molly thought, but aloud she said, "I … fell. And cut my hand."

Jack seemed to accept that. Now his eyes were roaming the room impatiently. "Where am I?"

"You're in my cellar. I found you earlier today and you were hurt so … I tried to help you." Molly edged a little closer, still wary. "You need a hospital, Jack. You need help. Your wound is getting infected."

He shook his head desperately. "No. Can't find me. You can't tell them where I am."

"Why, Jack?" Molly tried hard to keep her voice from trembling. "Why can't anyone know you're here?"

Damn it, he was spacing out on her again. His eyes looked beyond her, into empty air, and he said "Charlie?" Then his voice rose and he shouted the name desperately — "Charlie! Oh God! Charlie! No God, please! Not my son!"

He rocked back and forth, his voice cracking. Molly felt her eyes filling with tears at the depth of anguish in his voice. Whatever had happened to this man must have been devastating.

"Jack. Jack, it's Molly. Please calm down, Jack, please!" She didn't make the mistake of getting close to him, but the sound of her voice seemed to calm him slightly. After a moment he asked timidly, "Cassie?"

"No. I'm Molly." She was beginning to understand how a broken record feels. "Molly McDougal. You're in my cellar, remember?"

"Cellar?" Jack stared at her, his muddled brain trying to piece together the sequence of events that had brought him here. "What planet am I on?"

_Huh?_

"Um … Earth." Molly didn't even want to consider the significance of that question. He'd probably seen a SciFi movie recently or something. She hoped that was all it was. "You're in Colorado, Jack. Do you remember how you got here?" _And please don't tell me you were kidnapped by aliens._

"No." His eyes wandered the room and came to rest on her again. "You're hurt! What happened? Where's my team?"

Molly closed her eyes, and her head dropped wearily. It was late, and she was really getting tired — too tired to go through the repetitive questions routine again. "I'm okay. I just tripped." She could tell by his expression that he wasn't fully convinced. "I don't know where your team is, Jack. You were alone when I found you."

"Have you got any water?" Jack asked, finally seeming to comprehend that she couldn't give him the location of his team.

"Right here." Molly helped him drink again, keeping her left hand out of sight. It was hurting badly, and she could tell that it was still bleeding. She only hoped the wound didn't have any pieces of glass stuck in it.

Jack's temperature seemed to be going steadily up, and sweat glistened on his entire face now, dripping off his chin. After he drank, she helped him lie down. "Sleepy," he mumbled, and then his eyes closed and he lost consciousness. His pulse was very fast.

Wearily, her head throbbing, Molly climbed the stairs and went straight to the kitchen. Picking out a soup bowl identical to the one that had met its demise in the cellar, she dropped it on the floor and watched as it smashed into pieces.

Then she trudged to her mother's room and flung open the door with her right hand. "Mom. Wake up. I think I've hurt myself."


	8. Chapter Eight

_There is courage for the simple man_

_The holder of secrets and scars … _

_— Newsboys, "The Tide"_

* * *

"Mo-om, please. I don't want to have to get dressed and ride all that way in the middle of the night."

Molly was using her best 'Voice Of Reason' tone, the one she saved for really urgent occasions. "I know you stitch people up at the hospital all the time, and you've got enough medical supplies here," she continued. "Can't you just take care of it now so I can go back to bed?"

Karin McDougal sighed, finally giving in. "Okay, Molly, but if it shows _any_ signs of infection, you're going to the doctor!"

"Thanks, Mom." Molly smiled as best she could with her face somewhat the worse for wear. The gash on her hand had been fairly easy to explain away — she'd been hungry, had gotten up to make herself some soup, and had dropped the bowl and slipped, falling on the broken glass. The cut on her cheek, and the ugly bruise stretching from her cheekbone down to her jaw, were a little harder to account for. Molly was fairly certain she had managed to convince her mother that she'd hit her face on the counter when she fell.

Karin carefully disinfected and stitched the ugly gash, while her weak-stomached daughter stared pointedly at the ceiling. After Mrs. McDougal had wrapped her daughter's left hand in gauze and applied a band-aid to Molly's cheek, the teenager jumped gingerly off the bed and started down the hall toward her room. "Thanks, Mom. Love you."

"I love you too, kid. Be more careful, you hear?"

Molly's faintly sarcastic "Yes, Mother" floated down the hall behind her. The door to the teenager's room shut with a quiet 'click'. Karin was reaching to turn off the bedside lamp when she heard the knock.

* * *

Molly McDougal was officially worn out.

In fact, with her head pounding and her hand still aching despite the painkillers her mother had given her, she felt about as drained as she had ever felt in her life. Still, she knew she couldn't leave Jack alone out there for an entire night. If he became delirious again, there was no telling what kind of harm he might do to himself.

In the end, she decided on a compromise: she'd allow herself a few hours of sleep, but would set an alarm for 3 AM to make sure she didn't sleep the entire night through. At 3 AM, she would go out and check on Jack.

She had just finished setting her alarm and was about to turn out her light when she heard the soft murmur of voices outside, then a sharp knock. She froze, suddenly terrified.

_Oh God … oh God oh God, please help … _

* * *

When worried about one of her teammates, Samantha Carter could quite suddenly turn from a cool, efficient soldier into an overprotective mother hen.

She was currently demonstrating that skill on the hapless Daniel Jackson.

Sam and Daniel were both tired — it was sometime in the wee hours of the morning, and they'd been searching for hours on end. Even _Teal'c_ seemed tired — as tired as a Jaffa could get, anyway.

Daniel had a handicap, however, which made him more vulnerable than Sam or Teal'c: he was still in the process of recovering from a leg wound. And throughout the long day and night of searching, his limp had become more pronounced with every step he took. He was now keeping as much weight as possible off the injured leg.

"Daniel," Sam said worriedly for the fifteenth time, "you _really_ should get off that leg." She tapped the side of her dimming flashlight impatiently, unwilling to admit to herself that she needed to return to the car for fresh batteries. Along with the other volunteers, Jack O'Neill's team members had searched a large area, without discovering any signs of the Colonel.

"Sam," Daniel replied, his tone a little sharper than he had intended, "I am _fine."_

Sam's face showed severe exasperation, and she started to speak, only to be cut off by Teal'c.

"DanielJackson." The Jaffa spoke up finally, his voice quiet and reasonable. "Your leg does appear to be growing more painful by the moment. It would benefit all of us if you would consent to a rest. Your slow gait is preventing MajorCarter and myself from moving as rapidly as we otherwise might."

Daniel dropped his head, Teal'c's words finally getting through to him. "All right," he said wearily, looking around for something to sit on. Suddenly, Sam turned off her flashlight and motioned to the others to do the same. They stood for a moment, confused, in the darkness.

"I thought I saw a light," Sam whispered, then pointed. "There it is!"

"Wow." Daniel squinted at the house, which had light clearly shining from two of its windows. "Somebody's up late."

"Well, if they're still up, we might as well ask them if they've seen anything," Sam said, then cast a glance at her limping teammate. "Besides, it would give Daniel a chance to rest."

Daniel sat down on the edge of the front porch while Sam knocked on the door. For a moment there was no response — then a woman's voice asked timidly, "Who is it?"

"Ma'am, I'm with a search party looking for a man who recently disappeared from this area. Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions?" Sam asked, trying to sound as non-threatening as she could.

Evidently her attempt was successful, because the door opened and a woman in her thirties stepped out. She was beautiful despite her tousled hair and bathrobe. She looked a little wary when she caught sight of Daniel and Teal'c.

Daniel smiled and waved, using the 'I wouldn't harm a fly' expression he had perfected on wary aliens. Teal'c looked unintentionally threatening. "We really need to work on that smile," Daniel muttered to him.

"I'm Samantha Carter, and this is Daniel Jackson and Murray," Sam said, pointing to each of her teammates in turn. "We're searching for a colleague of ours. His name is Jack O'Neill and he is about 6'2" with graying dark hair and brown eyes. He was in a car accident not far from here, and from all indications he was injured and wandered away from the scene."

"Karin McDougal." The woman extended her hand, remembering her manners. "I'm sorry, I haven't seen anyone like that. How long ago did the accident occur?"

"Sometime yesterday; we're not sure exactly when. There weren't any witnesses." Sam sighed, looking suddenly weary, and took a seat next to Daniel. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, ma'am. We're pretty desperate to find him."

"You look tired," Karin said. "And considering how long you've been searching, you must all be hungry as well. You're welcome to come inside if you like. I have some leftovers I could heat up for you." Even as she extended the gracious offer, the woman glanced apprehensively at Teal'c.

"Oh, thank you, but we couldn't possibly — "

"I insist." Karin's voice softened. "As a nurse, Ms. Carter, I can tell that you are in desperate need of rest. I know you're anxious to continue your search, but you aren't going to help your friend by working yourself to death."

"You're right." Sam helped Daniel up and allowed him to lean part of his weight on her as they followed Mrs. McDougal inside. "Thank you."

Karin's experienced eyes couldn't miss the fact that Daniel was clearly suffering from a leg injury, but she didn't comment, assuming correctly that it wasn't something he wanted to discuss. As she moved around the kitchen, she asked in a low voice if they could be quiet, because her teenage daughter was sleeping. She couldn't have been more wrong.

Said teenage daughter was, in fact, not even in the house any more.

* * *

From her post next to her open window, Molly had heard the entire conversation between her mother and these three strangers. At first she thought they seemed genuinely concerned about Jack's welfare, and she considered telling them where he was. But the story about the car accident didn't ring true — since when did people get gunshot wounds in car accidents? — and she knew these people could very well be the menacing characters Jack had been so desperate to hide from.

Remembering Jack's deteriorating condition, Molly urgently wanted to get him help, but what if turning him over to these people would be a death sentence? Her decision was almost an impossible one to make. And finally, she decided she wouldn't make it alone: she would ask Jack what to do.

Silently, she slipped out the back door and into the yard. There was a storm beyond the mountains, and although the sky overhead was clear and star-filled, she could see periodic flashes of lightning. The gossamer thread that was the milky way hung at the zenith of the sky, reminding her how late it was.

Molly tipped her head back and looked straight up at the stars until the muscles in her neck began to protest. Off to the south, ragged shards of cloud made small dark alleys, blocking a few stars. They reflected the lightning, creating the optical illusion that it was much closer than it was. It seemed too beautiful to be the night on which her life came apart.

Because of her injured hand, Molly had to struggle to open the cellar door. She finally descended the stairs, cautious, just in case Jack in his delirium thought she was an enemy. She'd had enough of that kind of misunderstanding for one lifetime.

The injured man had actually stayed on his pallet this time, but he was mumbling quietly and incoherently to himself. When she cautiously touched his face, the heat emanating from his skin shocked her, burning her fingers. She jerked her hand away and shook his shoulder a little. "Jack. Jack, please wake up."

He mumbled something in what sounded like a foreign language. Losing it completely, Molly began to cry and shook him harder. "Please, Jack. Please. You have to tell me what to do. You're gonna die if you stay here. Is that what you want?"

Brown eyes opened slowly and fixed on Molly's face. She saw no recognition. "Charlie?" He whispered desperately.

"No. I'm Molly, remember? You're in my cellar, Jack, and you're hurt, and I don't know what to do. You have to tell — me — what — to — do." She was sobbing now, embarrassed but unable to stop, her breath coming in hiccupping gasps.

"Molly?" He repeated, and an expression of distress crossed his flushed face when he saw her tears. "Don' cry. Please … don' cry."

"Then tell me, Jack, please! There are three people here looking for you. Sam Carter, Daniel Jackson, and Murray. Can you trust them?"

His focus wandered. He said something in a foreign language again, ending the sentence with "kree".

Molly shook him, crying harder than she had in a long time. "Jack, for God's sake, _tell me!_ Can you trust them? Can you trust Daniel and Sam and Murray?"

Slowly, oh so slowly, his head turned toward her. "Daniel?" He whispered.

"Yes, Jack. Daniel. Can I tell him you're here? Please tell me, Jack. Do you trust Daniel?"

After an eternity, it came — the tiniest little nod of affirmation. "Yes," he whispered. "Trust Danny."

"Stay here. I'll be back. You're gonna be okay, Jack, I promise." After brushing a sweat-soaked strand of silver hair away from his forehead, Molly fled back up the stairs, leaving Jack with his feverish delusions.

* * *

Sam hadn't realized just how hungry she was, and from the looks on their faces Daniel and Teal'c hadn't either. Together, the three had managed to make a serious dent in Karin McDougal's plentiful supply of leftovers. When Sam commented about the amount of food Mrs. McDougal had on hand, the woman laughed softly. "Molly — that's my daughter — she eats a _lot._ You'd never know it, though — she looks like a beanpole."

On cue, the beanpole daughter appeared suddenly in the doorway of the kitchen, her face blotchy and tear-streaked. Her breath was coming in sobbing gasps, and she didn't seem to hear her mother's shocked exclamation of "Molly! What's wrong?"

"Jack's here," the teenager said. "You have to help him."

"Where?" Sam, Daniel and Teal'c asked in unison, jumping to their feet. Daniel's injured leg was quickly forgotten.

"In my cellar. I'll show you." Molly wiped her face on her sleeve, then turned to lead them toward the injured Jack O'Neill. As she left the kitchen, she couldn't avoid hearing her mother's horrified parting words. _"Molly May McDougal!"_

It was official. Molly would not _ever_ be allowed out of her room again.

* * *

Sam's face blanched when she saw Colonel O'Neill. Daniel whispered "Oh my God", and even Teal'c looked disturbed. Molly was alternately crying and apologizing, saying that she'd tried to help but he'd insisted nobody could know he was here and she hadn't known who to call and …

Sam went back to the house to call in a medical team to transport the Colonel to the nearest hospital, and Daniel, Teal'c and Molly stayed with Jack. He opened his eyes several times, but never appeared to recognize any of the people in the room. His skin was burning with fever.

They had gotten help for him. Now they could only hope it wasn't too late.


	9. Chapter Nine

_I know you want to walk away_

_And leave it all behind … _

_I hate to see you leave without a fight … _

_I promise I'll be there, don't say goodbye_

— _Third Day, "Don't Say Goodbye"_

_

* * *

_

"Have you heard anything yet?"

Daniel limped toward his teammates, still noticeably favoring his injured leg. After his arrival at the hospital, the archaeologist had been whisked away for treatment, his protests falling on deaf ears.

"No." Sam glanced at him briefly. "Janet showed up right after you left, but she hardly said anything to us. She's been in there with him ever since."

Daniel closed his eyes and sighed, then sat down next to Sam. She gave him a hug, as much for her own comfort as for his. Suddenly realizing how tired she was, Sam leaned her head on Daniel's shoulder. He slipped his arm around her, and they sat silently for a while, drawing strength from each other. Teal'c stood across from them, leaning against the wall, quietly guarding his Tau'ri friends.

Sam was almost asleep when a door opened and she heard the familiar cadence of high heels clicking briskly on the floor. Carter jumped to her feet, helping Daniel stand as well.

Janet Fraiser, the SGC's petite and pretty CMO, stared straight ahead, not meeting their eyes. From her expression, Daniel knew her news wasn't going to be good. _Please don't let him be dead,_ the archaeologist prayed desperately.

"Janet?" Sam said softly.

Dr. Fraiser exhaled slowly. "He's alive, Sam." The words _for now_ hung, unspoken, in the sterile air. "They put his shoulder back together in the OR, and he's on heavy doses of antibiotics to try to control the infection. We're going to transfer him to the SGC as soon as possible."

"Why?" Daniel asked in disbelief. "He's not up to being moved!"

"I know." Janet looked as exhausted as Daniel felt. "Colonel O'Neill is delirious, Daniel, and he's ranting about a lot of things." She stared straight at him. "Classified things." Another sigh. "You know it isn't my choice. The SGC is the only place secure enough for the things he's saying right now. I only pray he'll survive the transfer."

* * *

Molly McDougal was convinced that she had been shouted at more in the last few hours than in the first thirteen years of her life put together.

"What were you _thinking!"_ Karin McDougal shouted for the hundredth time. "Molly, he could have been a murderer or a child molester or a rapist!"

"But he wasn't!" Molly interjected, desperate to get a word in edgewise.

"That is _completely_ beside the point." Karin was on a roll, and she wasn't about to stop now. "You had no idea _what_ he was. You knew he was on the run, and that should have been enough. You should have marched right into this house and called the police. I thought you had better judgment than that!"

"I know." Molly suddenly looked very tired and very small. "I did too. I'm sorry, Mom."

"Oh, honey." Karin's hands dropped to her sides as all the rage suddenly fled. She pulled her daughter into a hug. "I know you are, and I forgive you. Just promise you'll never do anything like that again."

"I promise." Molly's voice was muffled due to the fact that her face was currently pressed against her mother's shoulder. She pulled away suddenly, reaching up to her face. "Ow."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Karin stepped back. "Did I hurt you?"

Molly shook her head. "No. It's just this bruise. It's pretty sore."

Karin looked at the bruise as if she'd never seen it before. Then her eyes dropped to Molly's bandaged hand. She opened her mouth to speak.

"He didn't do it on purpose!" Molly said rapidly before her mother could start on another rampage. "He was delirious and he thought someone was trying to attack him."

Karin closed her eyes and counted slowly to twenty. When she opened them, Molly was biting her lower lip, her entire body tense as if poised to flee. "Are you going to shoot me?" The teenager asked in a small voice.

Despite her best efforts, Karin couldn't prevent the hysterical little giggle that escaped. "No, Molly, I'm not going to shoot you. Not unless you pull a stunt like that again!"

"I won't," Molly said meekly, just before the phone rang. Karin answered, then turned to hand it to her daughter.

"It's Daniel. He wants to talk to you."

Molly snatched the phone. "Daniel?"

"Hi, Molly." He sounded exhausted, and there was a defeated tone in his voice that Molly didn't like. "I'm just calling to give you a little update. Jack's still in serious condition, but he's hanging on. We're having him transferred to a different hospital."

"Which one?" Molly asked, hoping (unrealistically, she knew) to get to visit Jack when he got better.

"It's, um … classified."

_I didn't know hospitals could be classified,_ Molly thought curiously, but decided not to say anything. Daniel sounded worn out.

"Okay," she said. "Thank you for calling."

"Sure. I'll try to keep you updated." A hesitation, but Daniel didn't hang up like Molly expected him to. "Thanks," he said finally. "For what you did for Jack."

"You're welcome." It felt strange to be thanked for helping Jack, only moments after being grounded for the same act.

"Well?" Karin McDougal asked after her daughter hung up the telephone and turned around.

Molly sighed. "He's not doing well, but he's still alive. Now … we wait."

* * *

"Sam," Janet Fraiser said, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the thrumming roar of the transport truck's engine.

Carter looked up, her expression apologetic. "Sorry, Janet. I was off in my own little world for a minute."

"It's okay." Janet gave a tired smile, then her face became more serious. "Sam … the Colonel's delirium wasn't the only reason we're transporting him to the SGC. There's no easy way to say this, but without … outside … intervention, he isn't going to make it."

"What do you mean?" Sam felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. _Don't tell me he's going to die!_

"I mean that he lost too much blood, that the infection is too far gone. I mean that he went too long without medical assistance, Sam. Even if by some miracle he survives — and I don't think he will — his shoulder was so badly shattered that he will never regain full use of that arm. You know what that means."

"And what do you propose we _do?"_ Sam's voice rose slightly. "Are you telling me it would be best to just let him die?"

"No!" Janet snapped back. "You know that's not what I meant!" She took a deep breath to calm herself. "Sam, we still have the healing device — "

"No." Sam shook her head emphatically. "No, Janet, I have no idea what I'm doing with that thing. I might kill him." The idea of attempting to use the device on one of her closest friends frightened Carter.

"Sam." Janet's voice took on the stern, icy tone that could intimidate even her commanding officers. "If you don't try, he's going to die anyway. It's the only chance he has. He's already had several seizures, and his fever is so high that he may already have permanent brain damage."

Samantha Carter could see all her other options spinning away, leaving her alone in the limelight. In this particular situation, it was the last place she wanted to be. She knew she was pathetically inexperienced to be trying to heal such severe injuries. "Can't we contact the Tok'ra?" She whispered miserably.

"General Hammond has been trying that ever since he found out about the Colonel's condition, with no response so far." Janet paused. "I'm sorry, Sam. Right now the Colonel's only chance for survival is that healing device, and you're the only person here who knows how to use it."

"Okay." Sam nodded slowly, her decision made. "I'll try. I can't guarantee anything, but I'll try."

* * *

Colonel O'Neill looked awful. His face was ashen, and he had fallen into a deep coma, unresponsive even when poked by the needles he so dearly despised. Sam's hands trembled slightly as she slipped the healing device into place. She tried to banish all doubts from her mind and concentrate as she extended her hand.

The others, standing off to the side, could only watch and pray as the device lit up.

After several moments, the glow died and Sam's hands dropped. She stared numbly at the Colonel, who now lay more still than before, if that was possible. He didn't even seem to be breathing. Janet rushed to his side and felt for a pulse. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a raw, raspy voice spoke.

"Doc?"

"Colonel!" Janet's voice rose embarrassingly close to a squeak on the last part of the word. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't wipe the smile off her face. The other people in the room — including an exhausted Samantha Carter — seemed to be facing the same problem. Even Teal'c was grinning.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud." O'Neill's eyes took in the scene, and he moaned when he realized he was in the infirmary _again._ "What did I do this time?"

Daniel limped over, looking far more happy than a man with a leg injury ever has a right to look. "You got framed, were involved in a car accident, and hid out in the mountains for a few days," he said, trying to appear serious and failing miserably. "It's a really long story."

"Framed?" Jack echoed blankly. Then his eyebrows shot up. "Oh. _Oh!_ You mean by those worthless, slimy, stinkin', rat bastard — "

"Yes, sir," Carter said cheerfully.

" — N.I.D agents," O'Neill finished, giving his 2IC a sullen look. "I wasn't done, Carter."

Janet jumped in, placing a hand on his forehead. "I think he's still got a slight temperature, but it's almost back to normal. Colonel, how does your shoulder feel?"

"A little sore, but not too bad. Why?" He tried to remember what had happened to his shoulder.

Without replying, the petite Napoleonic power monger examined said shoulder thoroughly. "There's still a flesh wound, but the bone appears to have been repaired, and the infection is under control." She gave Sam Carter a giddy smile, which, on the face of the prim and professional Janet Fraiser, was almost frightening. "You did it, Sam."

"Excuse me!" Jack raised his voice impatiently. _"What_ did Carter do?"

Sam held up the healing device for his inspection. "I used this on you, sir."

"Oh." O'Neill let that sink in. "I must have been in pretty bad shape then."

"Yes, sir." Sam left it at that for the moment. There would be plenty of time now to explain the whole sequence of events to her CO. For right now, she was too tired.

_Thanks, Jolinar,_ she silently whispered to the Tok'ra symbiote who had died to save her life — the same symbiote who had now indirectly saved Colonel O'Neill's life as well.

"I'm feeling pretty good now that Carter fixed me up with that … thing," O'Neill said to Dr. Fraiser. "Do you think I could — "

"No."

"But I just — "

"No."

"But — "

"NO!" Janet Fraiser directed her patented Glare Of Doom at her latest patient. "Colonel, you nearly died today. You are … not … going … home! Do you understand?"

"Yes," he mumbled resentfully. After a few seconds his face brightened. "So when _do_ I get to go home?"

Sam and Daniel looked at each other and smiled. Even Teal'c's mouth twitched up at the corner.

He was back!

* * *

Summer in Colorado was beautiful. Sitting outside on his porch, Jack O'Neill sipped a glass of lemonade — only because the Doc wouldn't let him have beer yet, mind you — and stared speculatively up at the mountains. He had been home for a little more than a week now, and it was bad enough that his team members were still behaving like mother hens. Now that Dr. Fraiser had gotten in on the act, he was beginning to feel positively smothered.

A car door slammed, and Jack turned to see a tall, slender woman and a teenage girl walking toward him. This would be the first time he had seen Molly McDougal since being released from the SGC hospital. His mental images of the teenager were a bit fuzzy, but he did remember the lanky build and long dark hair.

"Jack!" Molly beamed when she saw him, but hung back a little, not sure what she should do. He solved her quandary by standing and giving her a quick hug. Then he extended his good hand to Molly's mother. "Mrs. McDougal. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise, Colonel." Karin McDougal was a beautiful woman, but she seemed a little more reserved than her daughter. "Molly has been dying to see you again."

"Yeah, well, I'm more than happy for the chance to thank her in person." O'Neill looked down at the teenager, who was already blushing, clearly uncomfortable. "From what I understand, I'd be toast right now if it wasn't for you, Molly."

Molly mumbled something unintelligible, trying desperately to think of a way to change the subject. Her curiosity about the situation she'd gotten involved in had never truly been satisfied. She had been told that O'Neill had been framed for a crime, but not what the crime was, or who had framed him. She knew she would probably never find out. It didn't matter that much — as long as she knew Jack was all right, she was happy.

"How are you doing?" Molly asked as Jack opened the door and invited them inside.

"Oh, I'm fine. Doc says I'll make a full recovery. I'm not quite ready to start playing hockey yet, but I'm getting there." He flashed her a lopsided grin, and she had to work hard to keep herself from drooling. She had been right — a healthy Jack O'Neill was a stunningly handsome man.

"You play hockey? I've never played, but I love baseball. I like to pitch. Mom gets to be the catcher." She smiled at her mother, who made a face. Jack found it difficult to imagine Karin McDougal in catcher's gear, down on her knees with a mitt on her hand.

"You've never played hockey?" Jack asked in horror. "Sounds like you need somebody to teach you." He couldn't miss Molly's hopeful expression, and thought that it must be tough for the kid, growing up without a father to teach her basic life skills, such as hockey. "So, who's your favorite baseball team?"

"Who do you think?" She laughed. "The Rockies."

"Yeah." Jack grinned wryly. "That's kinda what I figured. Hey, come on out here. I've got something to show you." He led Molly outside to the driveway; Karin took a seat on the porch and watched as Jack showed the teenager the proper way to hold a hockey stick. Molly's expression was animated and happy, and Jack seemed to be enjoying himself as well.

O'Neill noticed that Molly was holding the stick a little gingerly, and he caught a glimpse of a fresh scar on her palm. "What happened to your hand?" He asked casually. Molly immediately hid the offending hand behind her back, looking guilty.

A few vague memories popped into Jack's head — Molly looking at him with fear on her face; Molly wrapping up her bleeding hand and edging away from him. "Oh, God," he whispered. "I did that, didn't I?"

"It wasn't your fault," Molly defended immediately. "You were delirious, and you thought someone was trying to attack you. You said something about a snake. I thought maybe I could calm you down, so I touched your arm. You must have thought I was your enemy. It could have happened to anybody. The cut was my fault, anyway. I didn't let go of the soup bowl I was holding and I fell on it and it broke and cut my hand." She could talk almost as fast as Daniel when she wanted to.

Jack sighed, feeling suddenly old and weary. He was so sick of this — so sick of his presence causing harm to innocent children. He was still haunted by the face of that girl who had been shot just before he was captured. He knew now that she had survived and would make a full recovery, but he'd never forget her face in that instant after the bullet struck. He had finally found out the reason why the girl hadn't responded to his shouts — Naomi Darling was deaf.

As for the case against Jack, all charges had been dropped almost too quickly, as if someone wanted the whole incident to be forgotten. O'Neill had a pretty good idea who that 'someone' was, but while there had been sufficient evidence to indict Kinsey's Head of Security, the Senator himself had come out smelling like a rose. Again. As always. Jack was getting thoroughly sick of it. In fact, he occasionally entertained thoughts of borrowing a zat — just for one day — and taking care of the problem once and for all. Not that he'd ever actually be stupid enough to do it, but it made a nice daydream.

"Jack?" Molly's voice made him jump slightly. She was looking at him with concern. "Please don't blame yourself for this. If you do, I'll blame myself for not calling the police right away. If I had, you probably wouldn't have nearly died. I made an awful mistake and nearly got you killed."

"It wasn't your fault," Jack replied automatically, then saw the triumphant expression in the teenager's eyes and realized he was repeating what she had said just a few moments before.

"How about we make a deal?" Molly suggested. "I won't feel guilty about not getting you medical help right away, and you don't feel guilty for accidentally knocking me down." She extended her hand, and Jack shook on it. He knew the guilt would never fully go away, but he would never mention the incident to Molly again.

"I can't believe how much better you look," Molly said as she awkwardly aimed a few shots at the hockey net, missing almost every time. "When I saw your shoulder, I wouldn't have thought anybody could fix it. I guess doctors can do pretty amazing things nowadays."

"They can," Jack agreed seriously, all the while thinking, _It actually wasn't a doctor — it was a little metal thing with this really neat glowy light on it. Not that you'll ever find that out._

After a number of scoring attempts and very little improvement on her hockey game, Molly finally called it quits and towed Jack back to the porch, where Mrs. McDougal was watching with a smile. After watching her daughter interact with Jack O'Neill, Karin seemed to have relaxed.

"You see that tree?" Molly pointed. When Jack nodded, she asked, "Is it on your property?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Without a word, the teenager hopped off the porch and ran for the tree. The first limb was low, and she climbed onto it, then worked her way up higher, moving with the agility of someone clearly accustomed to climbing. "Bit of a tomboy?" Jack observed.

Karin laughed and nodded. "Exactly opposite from the way I was as a child. I played with dolls and borrowed my mother's makeup. Molly plays baseball and climbs trees." For a moment, she looked wistful. "I suppose she takes after her father, although she doesn't even remember him. He died when she was very small."

"I'm sorry," Jack said quietly.

Karin smiled at him. "Don't be. Brian and I had some wonderful years together. I wouldn't give them up for anything."

"I know what you mean." He definitely did. For him, there had been ten years — ten short, magical years …

_Don't go there, Jack. Not now._

"Listen," he said, "I'm having a bit of a get-together this evening, and I was hoping you and Molly could stay. Daniel, Sam, and Murray are going to be here — you already met them. My doctor, Janet Fraiser, is going to be here with her daughter Cassandra, too. Cassie's near Molly's age. She's a great kid."

"We don't have any plans, so sure, why not." Karin smiled again, revealing straight white teeth. "Molly's at home a lot; she doesn't have that many friends. I'm sure she'd enjoy it."

* * *

The barbecue was a success. He had invited Sara, but she already had plans. When Daniel asked about her, Jack explained why she wasn't there, then added a little too hopefully, "Maybe some other time." The archaeologist's smirk was all too obvious. A few moments later, Jack caught him whispering to Sam, who also began to grin inanely. Jack wanted to throttle them both, but refrained in the spirit of good will and companionship.

The entire group had meandered outside now — Cassie and Molly, seeming to have hit it off well, were sitting side-by-side under a tree and having a lively discussion that had little to do with baseball and a lot to do with actors, mainly of the youthful and cute variety. Jack couldn't resist a grin at this proof that the dark-haired tomboy could, actually, behave like a teenage girl on occasion.

Sam and Daniel were giggling again over some private joke, their levity possibly aided by the fact that they had ingested several beers apiece, and Teal'c was talking with General Hammond. Janet was arranging food on the picnic table while not-so-discreetly keeping an eye on Jack, lest he should suddenly feel self-destructive and attempt to fling himself off the porch. Molly's mother, Karin, was helping Janet with the food, and the visiting Major Paul Davis was standing off to the side, his interest in Karin not much more discreet than Janet's scrutiny of her patient.

Carefully, Colonel Jack O'Neill descended the porch steps, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass as the sunset's colors faded to beige and the first few stars appeared in a cerulean sky.

THE END


End file.
